


A Wolf in the Briar

by nightm0th



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, But obviously has to be an idiot about it for a while, F/M, Falling In Love, Geralt finally meets his match, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Major Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:34:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 89,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24007435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightm0th/pseuds/nightm0th
Summary: “Take it you don’t subscribe to the whole destiny bit.”“No, I would say I believe in destiny. I just don’t necessarily think everyone has one, and I think something can look like destiny when it’s not.”“And you think that’s the case with me and Yen?”“No idea, but everything you just said tells me thatyoumight.”Or, a witcher and a dryad walk into a bar. He has no idea that his life just changed forever.
Relationships: Avallac'h | Crevan Espane aep Caomhan Macha/Original Female Character(s), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 35
Kudos: 133
Collections: Witcher - Geralt/OC





	1. PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my first Witcher fanfic! This story contains references to events that happened in the books, but the plot is based on the Witcher 3 video game. I've adjusted some timelines and events to better fit my narrative. I own nothing but my own original content!

**PROLOGUE**

The girl was panicking, her breath coming fast and hard. It was dark, and she jerked her head this way and that, straining to see through the faint moonlight filtering through the trees. She stumbled onward, tripped over a root, fell to her knees, and pushed herself back to her feet. A sheen of sweat had broken out uncomfortably over her skin, and she shivered. _Why did I have to wander so far?_ she wondered angrily to herself. _Why do I always have to be so_ stupid _?_ She tried to take a calming breath. _Mama and Papa will’ve noticed I’m gone by now. They’ll send someone. It’ll be fine. I’ll be fine._

Suddenly it was quiet- too quiet, as if the very air around her had been muted. She stopped in her tracks as horrible, cold, creeping fear climbed up her insides like so many vines, and before she could blink, she felt the cool sting of an arrowhead pressing into her cheek.

Her heart thudded so hard in her chest that it was almost painful. She could hear quiet female voices speaking to one another around her in a tongue she didn’t recognize, and all was suddenly illuminated by a glowing torch. Only, as she stared at it, she realized it wasn’t a torch- it was a _wreath_ , glowing eerily green like nothing she’d ever seen before, clutched in the hand of a beautiful, wild-looking woman with long hair that looked to be the color of moss.

The woman was surrounded by others of her kin, all of them petite and wearing rough-hewn leather skirts and bodices, murmuring to each other as they stared at the girl. The one holding the arrow to her cheek, fair-skinned with flaming red hair, was the first to address her.

“Tell me your age, girl,” she commanded in a clear, ringing voice. The girl was frozen, her entire body trembling. The woman prodded her cheek slightly with the arrow, and it was only the feeling of blood trickling along the girl’s skin that finally prompted her to speak.

“Thirteen,” she squeaked. There was a pause in which the woman stared at her strangely. Then she abruptly reached out, wrapped her fingers around the girl’s golden necklace, and yanked it off her neck. The girl cried out in protest, reaching frantically for her beloved pendant, her most prized possession. But the woman ignored her, speaking to her comrades over her shoulder in that same foreign language, which sounded almost like Elder Speech.

The arrow at her cheek was lowered, only to be replaced by the woman’s hand gripping her upper arm, and then she was being dragged through the forest at a speed which caused her legs to continually tangle in her skirts, try as she might to keep her footing. She gasped for air as she tried to keep up, looking wildly around her in an effort to find _something_ memorable in her surroundings, _something_ that might help her get away from this mess, but there was nothing- just limitless, oppressive forest and that eerie green glow lighting their way to who-knew-where.

She didn’t know how many hours were passed trying to keep her feet under her in the seemingly never-ending verdure. Her legs had buckled underneath her several times in sheer exhaustion, but the red-haired woman only yanked her upright again and continued to charge onward through the green. Finally, just when the girl started to think she might die if they didn’t stop soon, the scenery began to change. The trees seemed to be getting bigger and bigger, and all around she could hear the soft babbling of flowing water. The same sort of green light from the wreath seemed to emanate from all over, only now she couldn’t see its source. There were more of the women, some with dark, matted hair, some with the same moss-colored hair as the one holding the wreath, some with red hair like the one who held her arm. All were staring at her, their eyes hard, analytical, assessing. Anxiety twisted in her stomach, and she felt panicked tears begin to prickle her eyes as her breathing again grew shallow.

And at the epicenter of all the green light and giant trees, sitting regally on a throne that seemed to be composed entirely of ancient roots, was the most beautiful woman the girl had ever seen. She had flowing molten silver hair with eyes to match, and skin the color of green olives. She was clothed in weightless, flowing white fabric, clasped together by a thick band of gold around her neck, and abeautiful golden branch-like circlet adorned her head. At her feet bubbled a silvery, twinkling pool of water, nestled amongst the mass of intertwined roots and leaves, which seemed to be fed on either side by the babbling streams the girl had been hearing only moments ago.

The girl was led up several steps made of earth and moss to the edge of the pond opposite the beautiful woman, where she was forced down to her knees. She clasped her hands together to keep them from trembling. Words were exchanged over her head that she couldn’t understand, and then the beautiful woman gracefully rose to her feet and knelt down to dip a golden chalice into the bubbling water. Her ancient silver eyes never left the girl’s as she rose again, moved around the edge of the pond, and held the goblet towards the terrified girl’s hands.

The girl sat frozen in terror, her eyes wide and shining. “You will drink,” the beautiful woman said, in a deep, wise, rich voice. Still, the girl remained paralyzed, silent tears streaming down her face. Her mind was a racing jumble of unimaginable fear and anxiety as she cast around frantically for some way out of this, while knowing deep down that there was none.

“You will drink, or you will die,” the woman said. The girl let out a dry sob as next to her, the red-haired woman gave her a sharp nudge. She raised uncontrollably shaky hands slowly towards the goblet, which was being held patiently by the beautiful woman as she stared down at her with those all-knowing eyes. The girl took the goblet in her hands and drew it towards her mouth, glancing pleadingly back up at the beautiful woman one last time. But she was met with that same ancient, blank expression, placid but merciless, and she knew it was hopeless. She brought the goblet to her lips, and drank.

The water seemed to sear and freeze her mouth and throat all at once, soothing and also inflaming, delicious and yet revolting at the same time. But no matter her feelings, she found she couldn’t tear herself away from it, as if her body were bound to the last drop in the chalice, and she somehow knew that once she reached that drop, everything would change.

Sure enough, as she neared the last sip, a blinding golden light seemed to grow in her vision until she could see nothing else. A nauseating surge of pure panic shot through her stomach.

Then she swallowed the last drop, and all was dark.


	2. PART 1: THE GIRL WITH THE AMBER EYES

**PART ONE - THE GIRL WITH THE AMBER EYES**

_Burgraviate of Trievona, Temeria_

_November 1276_

A wave of nostalgia washes over him at the familiar scenery, and he reins Roach up short, assaulted by the sudden feeling that this is a mistake.

The sweeping golden countryside around him, tinged with the slightest scent of the ocean from the west, looks so very different from what it was the last time he was here four years ago. It was barren and dead then, with bodies littered on the side of the road, corpses hanging from trees. Smoke rising from burnt huts. Dirt-stained peasants scavenging for food, necrophages prowling the area, and a ransacked, abandoned castle. The suffocating smell of death and decay.

Now the fields are busy with harvesting farmers, the village rebuilt and its inhabitants looking clean and fed. New trees planted, children running, not a body in sight, and no stench of death- just grain, and earth, and cold, clean autumn air. Should he be here, messing that up? Should he just let sleeping dogs lie? Is he worthy?

It was all Ciri’s idea, anyway, coming here. He could see on her face in Novigrad that he isn’t so good at hiding it anymore, how rough he’s been living, how lonely he is. She’s worried. Of course, she’s been telling him to come here for the last two years, ever since the war ended, really, but he’s been stubborn, able to convince her he’s fine- just enough for her not to insist, anyway. This time, though, she wouldn’t let up.

“She’s lonely too, you know,” she said forcefully, taking a swig of her ale at the Chameleon. “She pretends she’s fine, too busy to need anyone, but it’s obvious.” She rolled her eyes. “You’re both so stupid to think your friends wouldn’t notice.”

Geralt only gave a noncommittal grunt in response, drinking deep from his own tankard.

“Look, I’m not saying get married and settle down together,” she said, more gently now. “Just, make amends. Are you really going to let that whole relationship, that whole journey, go to waste? Could you really not use one more friend in this world?”

He didn’t say anything at the time, just sighed, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of agreeing outright. But he damn well knows she had a point. How long can he live like this, regretting the past, feeling unabsolved guilt, being alone day in and day out, sleeping on the cold hard ground every night? Yen and Triss are both out of the picture now, ever since the final battle, and he has no interest in revisiting either of those chapters of his life. It’s right for him, coming here, doing this. But is it right for her? Is he being selfish?

He sits there in the middle of the road, contemplating, as Roach paws the ground impatiently and the bright morning sun continues to rise in the sky. No, he has to do this. He has to try, or he’ll always wonder; he’ll always regret. He has enough regrets for ten lifetimes, and he doesn’t want this to be one of them anymore. And if she curses his name, banishes him from her life forever? Well, then he’ll be no worse off than he is now.

He urges Roach into a canter towards the entrance of the village, the road winding up into the forested hills where a great stone spire rises nobly out of the trees- a great many more trees than when he was here last, he notices. Kaer Lemmare. He feels an unpleasant twinge in his stomach as he thinks back to the last time he set foot in that place, but it fades as he passes through the bustling, healthy village, and is replaced with mounting trepidation and excitement as he leaves the village behind and continues up the road to the keep. He passes through the open blue-painted iron gates, coming to a halt in the courtyard. A portly armed guard approaches him, dressed in a velvet doublet and matching breeches in the Lemmare deep marine blue, and Geralt inclines his head.

“Here to see the Burgravine,” he says, dismounting and patting Roach on the neck.

“And you are?” the guard asks gruffly.

“Geralt of Rivia.”

“Ah, the Witcher Geralt!” His demeanor immediately lightens. “Lady Cirilla often talks o’ you. Name’s Erik.” He inclines his head jovially. “Stay put a minute. Wilelm ‘ere will take yer mount. I’ll just tell Babette you’re ‘ere.” He gestures towards an approaching young boy with shoulder-length brown hair, wearing a similar doublet and breeches, but in linen instead of velvet. He looks clean and well-fed. _Just like Phoebe to take good care of her staff,_ he thinks to himself with the slightest of smiles.

As Erik mounts the steps and disappears through the enormous blue front doors of the keep, Wilelm takes Roach’s reins and pauses. “What’s her name?” he asks.

“Roach.”

“Roach,” the boy repeats, caressing the mare’s neck gently. “Come on, girl,” he coaxes, leading her off and disappearing around the side of the keep. _Also just like her to have staff that loves animals,_ he thinks wryly.

He takes in the facade of the castle as he waits, appreciating its transformed appearance. Where the last time he was here it was barren, overgrown, and abandoned, its enormous courtyard is now covered in clean white gravel and lined with walnut trees laden with golden leaves rustling in the late autumn breeze. The tall stone staircase to the front doors is scrubbed clean and welcoming where before it was covered in dirt and debris. The sweet scent of turning leaves floats on the air, and he breathes it in deep. After a few moments, one of the great blue doors swings open, revealing a plump woman with pink cheeks dressed in a brown woolen dress with a white cap and apron. She beckons him forward, and he again is struck full in the face by the transformation inside as he mounts the steps and crosses over the threshold. He has no time to dwell on it, however, before Babette is ushering him through the entrance hall, up a flight of stairs, and into a handsomely furnished parlor.

“The Burgravine is attendin’ to business today, but you’re welcome to wait, master witcher,” she says cheerily, gesturing towards a comfortable-looking chair positioned near the roaring fire.

“What sort of business?” He takes the offered seat gratefully, leaning forward to rest his forearm on his knee, his other hand braced on the opposite thigh.

“Investigatin’ complaints about a griffin what killed a couple of our farmers,” she replies gravely. “Gruesome business, but she always sorts it out,” she finishes, a proud note evident in her voice.

He smiles wryly. “I don’t doubt it.”

“Well. Anything I can get you before I get back to work? A drink, p’haps?”

“Wouldn’t say no to a strong ale.”

“As you say,” she replies, disappearing from the room. Geralt leans back in the comfortable chair as he waits, and it seems like only seconds pass before Babette is back at his side, a mug of ale in her extended hand.

“Thanks,” he says, accepting the ale and taking a grateful pull from it.

“There’s also spirits and some glasses on the table there. Just give a shout if you need anythin’ else.” She bustles out of the room.

He sits still for a moment, taking in his surroundings. The enormous room runs along the front of the castle, one of its walls lined with giant windows, each of which is filled with its own window seat. The wooden floor is covered by a vast red patterned rug that stretches underneath all furniture in the room. Near the fire, where he’s sitting, are comfortable chairs upholstered in blue fabric with gold embroidery, and a long matching sofa, with settles upon which to rest one’s feet. There is a table laden with spirits and glasses, as Babette said, and other tables throughout the room studded with books, bowls of fruit, and candelabra. A card table sits in a corner.

Geralt smiles to himself at how lived-in the room feels as he gets to his feet and moves slowly around it, stopping to examine the items on the tables as he goes. Nursing his ale, he edges along the walls, studying the tapestries depicting the Lemmare family history. One of them shows the Lemmare family tree, with each member shown as an oval-framed bust with their name on a banner underneath. The family resemblance is uncanny; all of the figures share the same lush dark brown hair, olive skin, and angular bone structure, and Geralt immediately recognizes the golden pendant that adorns every Lemmare woman’s neck.

The tapestry is only filled to just past the half-way point, the bottom-most branch being two busts depicting handsome, dark-haired heads, connected by a red thread of marriage, the banners under which are delicately scrawled with _Rémyle Xavier Damon Lemmare_ and _Caroline Amelie Justine Zarga._ Marine-blue thread positioned halfway between the two busts leads vertically down to a third bust housing another beautiful brunette head, with arched eyebrows and eyes the color of backlit amber that seem to sear right through him. The banner under that bust reads _Phoebe Anke Marion Lemmare._ Phoebe.

Taking a deep breath, Geralt turns his attention back towards the fireplace, above which two large portraits hang side by side, depicting the same two attractive faces that rest above Phoebe’s on the tapestry. “Remy and Caro Lemmare,” he murmurs, approaching to study them more closely for a moment before finally turning towards the windows. He approaches the centermost one and settles into its window seat with his feet up, directing his gaze out over the forests and fields of Trievona, turned autumn red and gold. The ale has finally thawed him somewhat; he hadn’t realized just how cold he’d gotten over the last few unseasonably frigid days on the road. He wonders where Phoebe is out there, searching for leads on a griffin wreaking havoc on her people. He almost chuckles to himself at the irony. It was technically a griffin that started this whole thing, that fateful day years ago…

Senses dulled and body warmed by the strong drink and the patch of sun he’s settled in, he drifts off to sleep, images of griffins, drowners, and a penetrating amber gaze swirling in his mind.

~

When he wakes, the sun is low in the sky and Babette is gently shaking his shoulder. He instinctively jerks into an upright position, reaching behind his head for his swords, only to remember that they’re resting against the leather chair across the room and he doesn’t actually need them.

“Apologies, sir,” Babette says kindly. “I figured I’d might as well show you to your chambers, since Burgravine Phoebe still ain’t returned yet. She won’t send you out into the night, no way.”

“Wouldn’t be so sure about that,” groans Geralt as he swings his feet onto the ground and scrubs a hand over his face.

She chuckles. “Nonsense! I had Wilelm bring your saddlebags up already, so if you’ll just follow me.” She moves towards the door. Geralt grabs his swords and follows her up another flight of stairs to a long stone-floored hallway lit by torchlight, with widely spaced blue double doors on both sides. At the far end, with the largest expanse of blank wall on either side, is another set of blue doors which he can only assume is the entrance to Phoebe’s apartments, while at the opposite end near the stairs is a single door. “That door leads to the Burgravine’s personal library,” Babette says, noticing him staring. “It’s the spire you can see from down in the village.” He nods in understanding.

She leads him down the hall to the set of double-doors on the righthand side of Phoebe’s. “Lady Cirilla’s room is across the hall.” She gestures to the doors opposite. “The Malachite Room. It was the Burgravine’s childhood room.” Then she turns towards the double doors at the end of the hall, between his and Ciri’s rooms. “And that’s The Lapis Room, Burgravine Phoebe’s apartments. It was her parents’, too, along with all the other Lemmare Burgraves and Burgravines.”

She opens the doors to Geralt’s room. “The Vermillion Room,” she says proudly, gesturing with the sweep of an arm towards the splendid interior. The enormous, rectangular room has stone floors covered periodically with expensive-looking patterned rugs in various shades of red. The wall across from the door is lined with window-seated, floor-to-ceiling windows facing the front courtyard and village, like in the parlor on the floor below. Centered in the interior wall and dividing the room in two is a huge four-post bed, with covers and drapes of deep red embroidered with gold. To his left, beyond the bed, the far wall of the room is completely covered in a burgundy tapestry emblazoned with a cheerful and animated banquet scene. The corner area opposite the windows on that end of the room is occupied by a screen, shielding the bathtub from view. On this end of the room, where he’s still standing in the doorway, is an area with bookshelves, a desk, an enormous, roaring fireplace, and a table laden with spirits, glassware, and a fruit bowl. Geralt moves further into the room, which is bathed dazzlingly in late-afternoon sunlight.

“Well, I’ll let ye get settled,” Babette says, backing out of the room and closing the door after her.

“Thanks,” Geralt manages before the door closes. He sets his weapons against the trunk at the foot of the bed, upon which his saddlebags are already sitting, and moves towards the windows to take in the view, even more pleasing now at this new height. Dropping his eyes to the courtyard, he sees that Erik is no longer at the gate. Before he can wonder about this, however, he hears it: the the muffled yet unmistakeable pounding of a large horse’s hooves on dirt. His eyes dart beyond the gate but the road is obscured by trees, and he can only hear the hoofbeats getting louder and louder, unable to lay eyes on their source. He stares at the gate with bated breath, his heartbeat quickening slightly in anticipation.

It seems to fail momentarily when she finally gallops through and into the courtyard. He drinks her in like water; she’s just as he remembers and yet somehow so much more, astride her wonderfully familiar enormous white destrier with her locks of brown hair flowing down her back.

She’s dressed in a form-fitting, long-sleeved leather cuirass buckled up the front from waist to the base of her throat and ending in a mandarin collar, paired with matching second-skin leather breeches, boots laced all the way up to her knees, and elbow-length suede riding gloves. It’s the same head-to-toe leather travelinguniform he always knew her in, only she’s traded in well-worn brown for expensive-looking marine blue leather. Fastened over her shoulders is a splendid silver-white wolf pelt capelet, her sword and bow strapped to her back just as he remembers. It causes a surge of pride in him to see her looking so powerful, so _regal,_ and the irony of that white wolf pelt isn’t lost on him. He watches, unable to suppress a knowing smirk from appearing on his lips as she leaps lightly off her horse’s back, rubbing his neck appreciatively and kissing him on the cheek before handing the reins off to Wilelm. Then she’s striding up the steps, tugging on the fingertips of her gloves one by one before sliding them off her delicate hands.

He springs into action then, slipping silently out of his room, along the hall, and down one flight of stairs to the second floor landing. He wants just a few more seconds of observation, of appreciation, before she knows he’s there. He watches as she steps over the the threshold of the front door into the hall and veers off through a closed door to her right, unbuckling the chest strap fastening her back-scabbard with one deft hand as she goes.

He follows silently and observes from the doorway as she tosses her gloves onto a table in what appears to be a library, and leans her weapons next to them. Approaching a nearby bookshelf, she fingers through the spines for a moment before drawing out a book and opening it. She gazes at the first page for a few seconds, her eyes traveling fast back and forth over the lines of text, before snapping it closed, tucking it under her arm, turning, and laying eyes on him for the first time. He feels an involuntary twist in his stomach as her cognac eyes meet his. She can still do that with just a look, after all this time.

A slight raising of her arched eyebrows is the only indication of surprise he gets at his presence, but he’s not offended by that. If there’s one thing he knows about Phoebe, it’s that she has an impenetrable poker face.

“Geralt of Rivia,” she says mildly. The familiarity of her voice is honey to his ears- smooth with just a touch of hoarseness, the accent just like his. “I wondered when you’d show up on my doorstep.”

“Hm, a transformed doorstep. Place looks nice. You look-”

“Thank you,” she cuts him off. Her amber eyes haven’t left his yet. They haven’t even blinked, and neither have his own eyes. “Just passing through, or?”

“Not quite.”

She inclines her head in understanding, and he knows no explanation is needed, knows it isn’t the moment to push. “Well, you’ll forgive me for retiring so hastily, but I have quite an early morning tomorrow,” she says in that same mild tone.

“Griffin business?”

“Hmm,” she hums in the affirmative.

“Don’t suppose you’d care for some company?”

He wonders if the question will throw her, but to her credit, she doesn’t miss a beat. “If you like,” she says breezily. “I set out at six.”

Their eyes are still stuck on each other like magnets. “Six it is.”

“Babette,” she calls. Her gaze continues to burn into him all the way up until the housekeeper bustles in through the doorway. Only then does Phoebe shift it.

Babette curtsies deeply. “Yes, Your Ladyship.”

“Please see that our guest gets food, a bath, and anything else he needs. I’ll retire now. I bid you both good night.”

And with that, she’s picking up her weapons and sweeping past him out the door, sending a wave of intoxicatingly familiar cedar, neroli and iris to his nose before she disappears up the stairs.

_Well, could’ve gone worse_ , he thinks. _She could’ve thrown me out on my ass_.

~~

_Forest outside White Orchard, Temeria_

_April 1272_

The wonderful smell of horse reached her nose as she brushed out Rabbit’s white coat, and she breathed it in greedily, drawing comfort from its nostalgia and familiarity. It was one of her favorite scents in the world, always had been; even when she was in Brokilon and no longer remembered who she was, the smell of horses always immediately put her at ease. She meticulously tended to the damp spot where the saddle had been moments earlier in order to prevent any discomfort on Rabbit’s skin, while he grazed lazily on the grass surrounding the secluded tree she’d chosen as their resting place for the night.

Once his coat was gleaming, she stepped down from the boulder she had been standing on to reach the top of his back, and stowed the brush back in her saddlebag. “Stay close,” she murmured in Elder Speech, scratching behind the stallion’s ears affectionately as he lifted his enormous head to nuzzle her hand. She reached up to grasp the lowest tree branch and closed her eyes, allowing her consciousness to flow through her fingers into the bark, down the trunk, and into the deep network of roots underground, where she allowed herself to flow into the roots of all neighboring trees and plants as well. She felt around for any trace of human or monster activity in the area, but all was quiet. Pulling back into herself, she hoisted herself lightly up into the tree’s sturdy limbs, climbing until she found a comfortable spot with a clear vantage of her belongings below. She needn’t worry about bandits appearing in the night; with her enhanced vision she had no need of a fire, and she had chosen a site deep enough in the woods that only a fool would venture in so far.

She gazed up through the branches at the innumerable glinting stars and her thoughts wandered, as they so often did once she settled down for the night, to Ciri and Avallac’h. It had been three weeks since she had been separated from them, since the Wild Hunt had tracked them down in the deserted other world they’d been hiding in and they’d had to run. Three weeks since their hands had been forcibly ripped from her own as they traveled through the portal, and she had landed in that desolate village near Ellander only to find that she was alone.

Three weeks since she’d laughed with Ciri as they did their morning training together.

Three weeks since she’d felt Avallac’h’s touch, heard his deep, wise voice.

She’d had neither sight nor sound of them since, and her stomach was in knots. Where were they? Were they safe? Was Ciri finally in Eredin’s clutches? Was Avallac’h being tortured, or held prisoner, or worse? Her stomach turned at the thought.

She had scavenged hard for any scrap of information since they’d gotten separated; had lurked around the Temple of Melitele for any news of Yennefer of Vengerberg or anyone else who might know of Ciri’s whereabouts, had listened in on countless conversations in taverns and on the road… but nothing. Finally she’d admitted defeat, at least for now. She had no idea how to find Ciri and Avallac’h, not the slightest clue of where they might be if they were even in this world. She was running out of coin, and this was the closest she’d been to Trievona in seven years. It was time. She could resume her search for Ciri and Avallac’h after, but it was time, finally- time to go home. To see her family again.

Down below, she heard Rabbit snort as he continued to rustle hungrily through the grass. She smiled softly at the sound, reflecting on all her companions over the last seven years: dryads, mages, a traveler of worlds with the Elder Blood running through her veins, unicorns, elves… Rabbit was by far the most normal of any of them, and she could scarcely stand the thought of losing him like she’d lost everyone else she cared about. Her heart sank again, her stomach twisting with anxiety as her thoughts came full circle back to Ciri and Avallac’h. She took a deep breath, resting her head back against the tree trunk, and for the umpteenth night in a row, thought back to the last time she’d felt Avallac’h’s touch, the last night they’d spent together…

_“Baeg Aine.” His deep voice came clear through the trees behind her, though he hadn’t raised it. She hastily wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand, the brown suede of her glove turning dark where her tears had soaked into it. Taking a few deep breaths and willing the breeze to dry her eyes before he reached her, she rested her head back against the tree, gazing unblinkingly at the shimmering, moonlit surface of the river as his soft footfalls grew closer. She didn’t even know why she was bothering; he would know she’d been crying. He always did._

_“It is dangerous to wander off. You know this, and yet you persist.” He’d broken through the tree line and come to stand directly in front of her. She could feel his aquamarine eyes boring into her, but she kept her gaze fixed on on the brooch pinning his cloak closed over his chest._

_“I’m sorry,” she murmured._

_“What troubles you?” His voice had softened slightly._

_She took a deep, shaky breath. “Ciri’s sleeping?” Her voice came out higher than usual, falsely casual- deflecting. But he was not to be deterred._

_“Baeg Aine,” he said, softly but firmly. She kept silent. She didn’t want to worry him; he had enough on his shoulders as it was. “Baeg Aine,” he repeated._

_She’d seen how scarcely he slept since they’d left Tir Ná Lia, how the shadows under his eyes had grown. No, she wouldn’t be the one to add to that. She pressed her lips together stubbornly, still refusing to meet his eyes as he stepped closer and cupped the fingers of one large hand around the underside of her jaw, gently tugging it upwards, tilting her face towards his._

_“Phoebe.” He spoke her name softly, and she did finally look up at him then. It was as if he were reading her thoughts. “Your worries are mine.” The tears were welling up again in spite of herself, and she sniffed as they leaked out of her eyes and down her cheeks._

_“I’m alright, Avallac’h, really,” she replied with as much reassurance as she could muster, which admittedly wasn’t much, as evidenced by the trembling of her voice. She gave him a watery smile. “I’m just scared and thinking about my family, that’s all. Just the usual, nothing we need to speak of.”_

_But he was sliding the gloves off of her hands and gently massaging the tension out of her palms one by one, the way he knew always worked like a charm, and she felt the knot in her stomach loosen automatically as she released a long, slow breath. She let her eyes fall closed as his massaging fingers sent wonderful shivers of relaxation up her arms. “Thinking what of your family?” he asked softly, moving his thumbs rhythmically over her palm one after the other with just the right amount of pressure._

_“Just...” She swallowed audibly. “Just wondering how this ends. If I’ll ever see them again, if they’ve moved on with their lives without me, if I’ll ever be able to rest and put down roots in a real home…” She broke off and shook her head, taking a deep, stabilizing breath. “I’m just terrified for Ciri, that’s all, and it’s making my mind spiral. That’s why this is all coming out now.”_

_He stopped his ministrations and took her face in both of his hands, his palms dry and warm against her cheeks as he ducked to rest his forehead against hers. When he spoke again, he had switched to Elder Speech. “Squass’me, Baeg Aine,” he murmured._

_“For what?” she whispered, continuing the conversation in the language that had become as a mother tongue to her, so often had they spoken it to each other over the last three years. She cupped his outer wrists with her hands._

_“For not letting you go when I should have.” His deep, velvet words were spoken almost directly into her mouth, so close were his lips to her own. “It was out of spite, at first, that I kept you from returning to your world.” He brushed his thumbs over her cheekbones. “Then, out of selfishness.”_

_“I didn’t want to leave you, anyway, after a certain point,” she murmured. “Not even sure I’d be able to now, given the chance.” She released his wrists and reached up to run her fingers through his dark blonde hair, savoring, as she always did, his closeness, the honor he bestowed on her by speaking to her so unguardedly, touching her so intimately. Even after three years together it still humbled her, for she knew that to be treated tenderly by Avallac’h was a privilege known by few._

_“Forgive me,” he repeated, in the common tongue now, his lips brushing unwittingly against hers as they formed the words. She could taste his breath on her tongue and found her fingers curling involuntarily into fists in his hair as she pulled him closer._

_“Always,” she breathed into his mouth as he at last closed the final distance between them, his lips slanting over hers, tongues sliding searingly against each other as his hands trailed from her face down to her neck, and then down around her waist to pull her flush against him. She let herself get lost in his kiss, her ears ringing as she grew dizzy, and soon his hands were finding their way back up to the base of her throat where they began do undo the buckles of her cuirass with mounting urgency._

_The touch of his mouth against hers sent her mind reeling and she blindly reached for his brooch, fumbling it open and pushing his cloak off his shoulders before setting to work on his tunic and remaining layers. As always, he was faster, having undressed her completely before she was even able to fully remove his cuirass, his hands leaving burning trails across her skin as he ran them over every inch of her body they could reach- down her back to squeeze her buttocks, over her stomach and up to cup her breasts, down to stroke the damp heat between her thighs, eliciting a keening moan from her mouth into his. He allowed her to fully undress his upper half and loosen the laces on his breeches before he decided he’d waited long enough, lifting her effortlessly with his hands under her thighs and wrapping her legs around his waist as he continued his delicious assault on her mouth._

_It had never been like this in Tir Ná Lia, so frantic, and compulsive, and desperate. There, it was unhurried, languid, measured, just like Avallac’h himself. It was the stress and intensity of this situation, being relegated to this strange place and never knowing when the Wild Hunt might finally find them, that made it so that they couldn’t keep off each other now. Made it so that each night after Ciri went to sleep it was a matter of minutes before they were up against the nearest tree, or in the nearest patch of grass, ripping the clothing from each others’ bodies like they couldn’t meld themselves together fast enough._

_She was ready for him, more than ready; her eyes fell closed as she bucked against him needily and her stomach clenched in anticipation as she felt him pause to fumble at the front of his breeches._

_But her thirst went unquenched, and suddenly the metallic taste of blood was zinging over her tongue, running hot out of the corners of her mouth; she opened her eyes and broke the kiss to see Avallac’h’s face slack, the bloody tip of a blade protruding out of the front of his neck as blood flowed freely from the wound and out of his mouth. Eredin’s evilly handsome face loomed over his shoulder, smirking cruelly down at her and she screamed, reaching out for Avallac’h, but he was wrenched from her body and she was falling, falling, screaming his name at the top of her lungs as she went-_

“Avallac’h!” She woke to the jolt of her body hitting the hard ground, her sweat-drenched bastian giving her a chill as she reacclimatized to her surroundings in the cold, dark night. Panting hard, she lay there disoriented for several seconds, staring up into the shadowy forms of the leaves and branches overhead. Her stomach was twisted into knots of supreme terror and anxiety. _Something’s happened to Avallac’h,_ she thought wildly _. Someone’s hurt him! He’s in danger!_

But then she heard the wonderfully soothing sound of Rabbit nickering softly at her to her right, and with a slow breath, she closed her eyes and tried to bring herself back to the present moment.

She was in the woods near White Orchard. Rabbit was next to her, the forest was silent, and she was safe. It was just a nightmare. It wasn’t real. She didn’t know where Avallac’h was, but he had survived just fine for centuries and was more than capable of defending himself.

Her companion nickered again, and she turned her head to see his white form curled at the base of the tree, looking at her concernedly. He extended his long neck in order to nuzzle her hand. “It’s alright, brother,” she murmured in Elder Speech, rolling towards him until she was nestled into his blissfully warm side. “Just a nightmare.” Rabbit pressed his muzzle into her hair and she absorbed the comfort of his scent and warm breath on her scalp. Soon she was drifting off again, to dreamless sleep this time.

~

The sun was much higher in the sky than she wanted it to be when she woke, and she rushed to get Rabbit fed and tacked up so that she could resume her trek home across Temeria. Her nightmare had left a sick feeling in her stomach, and she decided that the entire ordeal had been a byproduct of her poor quality of rest these last weeks. She had been sleeping in trees with one eye open for too many nights now. Soon it would affect her ability to defend herself, especially if nightmares like last night’s became a recurring phenomenon. She would bed down at a proper inn tonight in White Orchard, and be refreshed for the next leg of her journey.

She mounted Rabbit and set off at a lively trot through the trees, breaking into a canter once she reached the road, but she quickly veered away and towards the riverbank. It would likely take all day for her to reach the village, and the last thing she wanted right now was the company of bandits and soldiers on the road, whose harassment she had endured incessantly ever since she’d landed here. She was usually able to deflect unwanted attention by adapting the unruffled, devil-may-care persona she employed with all strangers, and if it came to a fight they were no match for her. But today she was tired, her back hurt from her fall out of the tree, she was on-edge from the nightmare, and she had no patience. She just wanted solitude.

She rode peacefully along the riverbank for hours, close enough to use it as a guide but still far enough not to attract the attention of any drowners, until a craggy, overgrown stretch of bank blocked her path onward. She would have to either veer back towards the road until the way by the river turned smooth again, or cross here and continue along the bank on the other side. She surveyed the water. It looked quiet, though she knew better than to think that was an indication of what lay beneath the surface. Still, it seemed shallow enough here that with Rabbit’s extraordinary height, it would be no difficult thing to make a run for it if drowners did happen to be lurking.

Sighing resignedly, she urged Rabbit into a trot across the water with a few clicks of her tongue, wanting to move fast while not agitating the water unnecessarily by cantering. But it was still not fast enough. She was only about halfway across when she heard the telltale wet snarl of a drowner somewhere behind her, followed by the sound of several more rising out of the water. Her eyes widened in shock as she looked over her shoulder to see that at least ten of them had emerged from the surface and were converging on her and Rabbit from behind, and she resorted to digging her heels into the stallion’s sides to send him into a gallop across the remaining expanse of river.

She heard the necrophages hissing to each other as they gave chase, and the second Rabbit’s hooves touched the riverbank she was unsheathing her silver sword and vaulting from his back. She slapped his haunches with the flat of her blade to make him bolt away from the danger.

Then she turned her attention to the grotesque blue faces of the drowners surrounding her, and prepared to fight.

~

He allowed Roach to amble along at an easy walk as he headed back towards the inn. With Vesemir’s help, the griffin had been easier to kill than he normally would’ve expected, and once tomorrow dawned he would have to get back to the grind, continuing the search for Yennefer. But for now, the hard work was done for the day, the late afternoon sun was shining warmly, and for once there was no great rush to be somewhere.

He rode along the river instead of following the road, enjoying the turquoise-blue of its waters and contemplating what the next few days might hold for him. He hadn’t seen Yennefer in years. What was her game? What was she about to drag him into? Was he ready for it- for more games, more mind-reading, more of Yenn’s signature harrowing, toxic turmoil? And yet, he knew it didn’t matter if he was ready or not. As always with Yen, it was a physical, emotional, and mental imperative to please her, to do what she wanted, though often not a moral one.

But before he could immerse himself too deeply in those thoughts, he was snapped out of his reverie by the sound of blade hitting flesh. Spurring Roach into a trot, he rounded a bend in the river and came upon what could only be described as a very peculiar scene.

The first thing he saw was the horse. It had the height of the largest draft horse imaginable, but with the graceful proportions of a riding horse; a destrier stallion the likes of which he’d never seen, silvery-white with a charcoal mane and tail, and dapples on all four legs to match. It was prancing agitatedly, pawing the earth and snorting, and Geralt immediately saw why as he came level with the panicked animal.

On the riverbank, fighting a losing battle against what he estimated to be ten drowners and at least two water hags, was a girl. She was moving with speed and grace, and though she was showing incredible skill with what he registered with surprise to be a two-handed silver blade, even _he_ would have trouble dispatching that many necrophages at once. He was off Roach’s back, drawing his blade, and joining the fray before he could think twice about it. Soon the ground was littered with dead drowners, and as they stood for a moment panting in the aftermath, he was able to get a good look at the girl for the first time.

She appeared young, not older than twenty by his estimation. She was lithe and quite petite, almost two heads shorter than him in fact, with olive skin and dark brown waves of thick hair that curled and cascaded lazily to mid-back, the front strands of which were twisted around each other attractively and fastened behind her head with a leather thong. He fleetingly considered the absurdity of the fact that this diminutive woman must be the owner of the formidable beast still tearing up the ground next to Roach up the riverbank.

She was clad in a cap-sleeved leather cuirass, fastened up the front with small buckles and worn over a white linen bastian shirt, the sleeves of which were cinched on the upper arms with leather straps to keep them from billowing and were visible down to her elbows, where they tucked neatly into long, graceful riding gloves. Her cuirass hugged her abdomen closely down to the narrowing of her waist, where its hem met matching leather breeches with a lace-up closure. Almond-toe boots with a short heel adorned her small feet, laced up the front all the way to her knees. He noticed that though it was well-worn, all of her leather was supple, well-oiled, and the exact same shade of bark-brown. But never mind her clothing- it was her face that interested him most.

It was heart-shaped and boasted a delicate, dark pink mouth, straight nose, and dark eyebrows that arched over her most startling feature of all: wide, almond-shaped eyes, lashed so thickly that from afar they looked to be framed with kohl, and with irises the color of amber held up to sunlight. Her angular bone structure and high cheekbones supported smooth skin, flawless but for a small mole on her left cheek.

The girl was breathtaking, no two ways about it. He shifted his gaze; ogling her felt wrong, no matter how tempting it was. She must be Ciri’s age- way too young for the likes of him.

Her attention was trained on the distraught stallion. “Calm, brother,” she called in Elder Speech, and the horse immediately settled, though he continued to snort and toss his head hotly. Geralt’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he remained silent, and the girl’s eyes finally fell to his. “I would’ve gotten them all eventually,” she said blithely, in the common tongue this time, tossing her hair over her shoulder and gesturing dismissively towards the dismembered bodies surrounding them.

“Don’t doubt it for a minute. Just figured I’d save you the time.”

“Thanks,” she threw over her shoulder as she strode gracefully past him towards her destrier and slid her sword into a scabbard strapped to the saddle, rising up onto her toes to do so. The top of her head came up several inches short of the beast’s withers, even then. She grasped a handful of reins and mane, poised to mount, then paused, turning back to study Geralt for a moment with those piercing eyes.

“You remind me of someone,” she said.

Then she effortlessly vaulted the significant distance onto the destrier’s back, urged him forward with a few kissing sounds, and galloped away, leaving Geralt dumbstruck and intrigued amongst the stinking corpses on the riverbank.

He shook his head as he trudged back up to Roach’s side and mounted. The girl was an enigma, that much was for certain. To the untrained eye she looked human, but those eyes- they gave her away, though as what, he wasn’t sure. She didn’t have the pointy ears that were the hallmark of the elven race, and she couldn’t be a mage or she would’ve been fighting with magic. And on that subject, he had seen that she had a steel sword and a bow and quiver strapped to her back, and holstered next to the scabbard on her saddle was a spear. The girl was armed to the teeth like a proper warrior. Where had she learned to fight like that? Who was she that she could afford a silver sword, fine, well-oiled leather clothing, and a destrier like that stallion? And if she _was_ a noble, what was she doing fighting drowners on a riverbank in White Orchard?

He put the questions out of his mind as he galloped towards the inn under the setting sun. She was gone, and he’d missed his chance to get answers to any of them. _I should’ve gotten her damn name at least,_ he chided himself, then immediately shook his head to rid himself of the thought. _Pointless. Too young._

It was dark by the time he reached the inn. Covered in the combined guts of griffin and drowner, he was looking forward to a hot bath and an ale before bedding down for the night. He dismounted in the courtyard and removed his saddlebags before leading Roach into the barn, where he stopped dead in his tracks, not believing his eyes.

In the furthest and also largest stall was an unmistakeable giant white horse with a charcoal mane. Scoffing in disbelief, Geralt led Roach into the nearest empty stall, untacked her, and ensured she had hay and water. Then he approached the white stallion, shaking his head as he went. Slowly, he extended the backs of his knuckles towards the horse’s muzzle. The beast tossed his magnificent head slightly, then lowered it towards Geralt’s hand, taking a deep inhale of his scent. Geralt ran his hand over the stallion’s face and down to the bare pink skin of his muzzle. “I can’t believe my luck,” he muttered, before giving the beast a pat on the neck and striding out of the barn.

The witcher walked through the door of the inn and immediately scanned its inhabitants. It didn’t take long for him to find what he was looking for, leaning her elbows on the bar with her back to him, sipping from a tankard of ale. Reservations about her age momentarily forgotten, he approached her, signaling the barmaid for his own ale as he went, and leaned one elbow on the bar next to her.

“You again,” she said neutrally, without looking at him. “Are you stalking me?”

“Seems that way. I never got your name earlier.”

She did give him a considering look out of the corner of her eye then, before turning her gaze front again. “Pity,” she said airily.

A pause. He tried again. “What business does a girl like you have in White Orchard?”

“Just passing through.”

“Likewise. What direction are you traveling?”

“West.” _Cryptic, this one,_ he thought to himself.

“Same here. Care for some company on the road tomorrow?”

She finally turned her head to look at him, eyebrows raised, her twin amber orbs seeming to gleam in the flickering light of the myriad candles. She studied him for a long moment, the faintest trace of amusement flitting around the corners of her mouth, before turning back towards the bar and draining her ale.

“Why not,” she said lightly, slamming the tankard on the counter and turning to go, but Geralt was quicker this time.

“Hey.” He grabbed her upper arm gently but firmly before she could walk away, and she turned to look at him, eyebrows raised in mild surprise. They were so close that when he inhaled, he got a heady noseful of her scent: cedar, neroli, and iris. Woodsy and crisp and feminine, all at once. It was drugging. He viscerally tightened his fingers around her arm, feeling the soft warmth of her skin underneath her bastian. Somewhere deep inside he felt a dim niggle of wrongness, but it was easily ignored. “What’s your name?”

She dropped her eyes pointedly down to his hand, then back up to his, but he held fast, waiting. “Briaris,” she finally replied, eyes still boring into his. He released her arm, and she immediately turned away, striding towards the staircase.

“Aren’t you going to ask mine?” he called after her as she began to mount the stairs.

She didn’t lose step as she threw him a capricious smirk over her shoulder. “Why? Is your name important?”

He scoffed, but before he could come up with a reply, she was gone. Not for the first time since that afternoon, he shook his head in bewilderment as he turned back towards the bar to grab his ale before searching for Vesemir amongst the crowded tables.

The conversation had been short, it was true. But he’d gotten her name, and now he’d hopefully have many miles of westward riding tomorrow to get answers to all his other questions. He found himself quite looking forward to it, guilt over her age be damned.

~

He awoke before sunrise the next morning, using the remaining hour of darkness to meditate. He took his time dressing and getting organized before descending the stairs, procuring some bread, water, and other provisions from the innkeeper, and finally making his way to the stable. The absence of Vesemir’s horse told him that his mentor had left back to Kaer Morhen already, unwilling as always to entangle himself in Yennefer’s chaos.

He found that Briaris was already in the barn, grooming her horse with surprising diligence.

“Morning,” he grunted, approaching Roach’s stall and setting his saddlebags down against the outside of it.

“Morning.” She bent over to lift one of the stallion’s front hooves and pick it. Geralt took a few unhurried steps towards the beast’s stall, his arms crossed over his chest.

“You been at that long?” he asked dryly as she straightened again.

“Oh, I just like him clean. And he likes it too, I should think.” She eyed the beast affectionately as it bent its head to nuzzle her hand.

“How’d you come by him, anyway? Never seen a horse like that in all my life. Must’ve cost you a pretty penny.”

“Rabbit? I found him, actually, in a ransacked village near Ellander,” she said, turning to look at him. “He was just wandering there, all cut up and skinny. I couldn’t just leave him like that, and I needed a mount. So, I fixed him.” She turned back to gaze at the beast thoughtfully. “But you’re right, he definitely has good breeding. I suspect he must’ve belonged to a noble.”

“Rabbit?” Geralt raised a mocking eyebrow, his lip curling.

“He’s faster than his size would have you believe, and you should see him jump,” she smirked. “What’s her name?” she asked, inclining her head towards Roach.

“Roach.”

“Roach?” she repeated, eyebrows raised. “And you have the nerve to scoff at my choice of name? Why did you name her that, poor creature?”

He shrugged. “I name all my mares that.”

“How sentimental of you,” she deadpanned.

They finished readying the horses in silence, then led them out side by side into the bright morning sun to mount in the courtyard. Geralt nodded towards the stable hand as they rode past towards the road.

“Farewell, witcher Geralt,” the peasant nodded towards Briaris, “miss.”

Geralt was about to tell him to take care, but was distracted by the fact that Briaris had pulled Rabbit up short and was staring at him with wide eyes, as if seeing him for the first time. “Geralt of Rivia?”

Geralt pulled Roach to a halt as well, looking over at her quizzically.

“You’re Geralt of Rivia?”

They stared at each other.

“ _Ciri’s_ Geralt?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baeg Aine - Little Light
> 
> Squass'me - Forgive me


	3. Chapter 3

Phoebe’s heart leapt into her throat. She couldn’t believe her ears. She had conceded to the witcher’s request to ride together out of sheer deprivation of company after traveling alone over the last weeks. He had been kind in helping her with the drowners yesterday and his manner was respectful, unlike so many others she encountered on the road, so she’d seen no harm in it. Plus, there was something she liked about him- something about his rugged persona, his direct way of speaking that made her stomach twist weirdly, as if it had been hit by a lightning bolt, especially when he’d grabbed her arm last night. And he wasn’t hard on the eyes, either. If he turned out to be a wolf in sheep’s clothing, it wasn’t as if she was incapable of defending herself.

But she’d never dreamt in a thousand years that he might end up being this _particular_ wolf in sheep’s clothing. She should’ve put it together sooner; he had reminded her of Ciri from the moment she’d laid eyes on him, after all. Geralt of Rivia- she could scarcely think of a more fortuitous person to encounter. He was practically Ciri’s father! _To think I joked about his name not being important!_ “You’re Geralt of Rivia?”

He only stared back at her, an expression of mixed surprise and suspicion on his face, his torso rotated in the saddle.

“ _Ciri’s_ Geralt?” She was holding her breath. If he truly was Geralt of Rivia, this man might know something about Ciri and Avallac’h, something to help her figure out what had happened to them after she’d ended up here. She’d had the nightmare about Avallac’h again last night, waking up in a cold sweat screaming his name, and though she was still trying to convince herself it was nothing more than a bad dream, her reassurances were starting to feel hollow. She needed to get to the bottom of what happened, needed to know that Avallac’h and Ciri were safe.

Geralt actually wheeled Roach around to face her fully now. The stablehand still stood there, glancing bemusedly back and forth between them. “You know Ciri?” Geralt’s voice was halfway between suspicious and amazed.

She glanced down at the stablehand and back up at him, not wanting to reveal too much to strange ears. “It’s a long story.”

He inclined his head in understanding, then jerked it towards the road. “Come on. I have a reward to collect and we need to talk.”

They filed out of the gate, riding in silence until they had left the village behind and were alone on the road. She followed as he veered off into a small grove of trees, then looped Roach around to fall in next to Rabbit in the opposite direction so that Geralt was facing her, so close that their knees brushed. She murmured calming words to Rabbit, who was becoming restless at being in such close proximity of Geralt’s mare. Then she looked up to find the witcher staring at her with his cat-like golden eyes. “How do you know Ciri?” he asked lowly.

She studied him for a second, wondering what the most succinct way to explain was. She trusted this man insofar as he was Ciri’s father-figure and confidant, but he was still a stranger, and she needed to toe the line between telling him the truth about her relationship with Ciri and not revealing too much of herself. Finally, she settled on the simplest summation she could think of. “She’s my best friend. I was with her from the Temple of Melitele to Tir Ná Lia, and then again for the last several months until...” She faltered. “Until we got separated.”

He grasped her arm. “Do you know where she is?”

Her heart sank. “You mean you don’t?” she asked weakly.

He sighed, his brow furrowing in disappointment. “Alright, let’s back up. Start from the beginning. How-”

But suddenly her hackles were rising, a shiver traveling down her spine. She held up a hand to silence him, her eyes darting all around the surrounding trees as she hastily tugged her glove off, and then, raising her arm over her head to touch the nearest tree branch, she felt it: rustling, footfalls on the grass, brush whipping against something as it approached, fast. Geralt narrowed his eyes at her questioningly and opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off. “Get down!” she cried, and he ducked not a second too soon as she cast a powerful Aard, knocking back the alghoul that had burst through the trees behind him and forcing its spikes to retract into its back. Both she and the witcher were off their horses in an instant, blades in-hand, and Geralt directed a shocked glance at her as two more of the disgusting beasts appeared. The alghouls snarled gruesomely as they loped around them on their uneven legs.

Geralt cast a far-reaching Igni, setting two of the beasts aflame and singeing the trunk and low-hanging branches of the nearest tree, as she lunged at the third. She dodged a powerful swipe of its claws and took the opportunity to whirl around and deliver a crushing slash to its side. It stumbled and she struck it again while it was down, and again. She twisted out of the way at the last second as it lunged at her, swinging her blade over her head as she went, and as the beast came level with her she brought her sword down hard on its neck, decapitating it with one final stroke.

She leapt forward, casting another Aard to knock one of the remaining alghouls away from Geralt. She drove her sword down through its neck as it fell on its side, while Geralt dispatched the last beast with a final swing of his sword. Then he rounded on her.

“What are you?” he panted, his voice rough with adrenaline.

She paused, considering him while she caught her breath. How to answer? She couldn’t yet trust him with the details of her identity and background, but if she ever wanted to be reunited with Ciri and Avallac’h, she had a feeling Geralt was the key. And she couldn’t deny that riding and being put in situations of combat with him would quickly become unmanageable if he didn’t know the basics of what she was.

In lieu of answering his question verbally, she approached the blackened trunk of the tree that had been hit by Geralt’s Igni and placed her bare hand on it while Geralt followed her movements with his eyes. She met his eyes for a second, then closed hers, unleashing her inner energy and magic into the bark through her fingers. In her mind’s eye she followed her own sparking energy as it flowed along the tree’s inner cells and up through its damaged branches, then felt the warm tingle of healing prickle at her psyche. When she opened her eyes, the tree was good as new, all traces of burn gone and its damaged leaves regrown. She met Geralt’s eyes again.

“A dryad. That explains a lot.” He looked like he wanted to ask her more questions, but then shook his head. “Listen, I need to get to the Nilfgaardian garrison to turn in this griffin trophy and get my reward. After that’s done, we can hit the road and finish talking, alright?”

She quirked an eyebrow at him curiously. “Why the urgency? I mean, I understand that coin is important and monster contracts are a witcher’s stock and trade, but I don’t see a simple griffin killing being worth a tremendous amount of gold.”

“I’m looking for someone,” he admitted, meeting her eyes. “The Nilfgaardian commander at the garrison promised me information if I took care of the griffin.”

“Ah,” she nodded. “Let’s go, then.” She wouldn’t be one to pry, seeing as she herself was keeping the specifics of her journey close to the chest- much closer than he was, the fact remained. She hadn’t even given him her true name, only revealing the name that had been given her when she’d begun her life as a dryad, but she didn’t feel guilty about that. These were dangerous times, and trusting was just not in her nature. Her true identity could put her and her family at risk in the wrong hands, and she had only allowed two people to learn of it since escaping Brokilon: Ciri and Avallac’h.

They mounted the horses and galloped the distance to the Nilfgaardian garrison in silence. Phoebe remained in place upon their arrival as Geralt dismounted, prepared to wait for him with the horses while he tended to his business, but he paused at the bottom of the steps and looked over his shoulder at her expectantly.

Raising her eyebrows in surprise, she murmured “stay” to Rabbit in Elder Speech, then dismounted and followed as Geralt took the wooden steps two at a time. They came upon a gate flanked by Nilfgaardian guardsmen in winged helmets who, seemingly recognizing Geralt, allowed them to pass through and into the courtyard beyond without comment. Moving further into the courtyard, they walked in on a tense scene: an unwashed-looking peasant stood by while a dark-haired man in fine Nilfgaardian commander’s armor knelt upon the ground examining a bag of grain.

“What the hell is this?” the commander asked.

“R-rye,” the peasant stuttered nervously.

“You take me for a blind man or a fool? This grain is rotten.” The Nilfgaardian got to his feet.

“I.. I didn’t know.”

“So, a fool. Damn it, you never learn,” the commander muttered. “Military codex, article two, section three: ‘For the delivery of defective goods, fifteen lashes with a knout,’” he recited, speaking loud and clear now. He turned towards two soldiers standing nearby. “Make it so.”

The peasant fell to his knees in fear, his voice hysterical. “No, no, no! By the gods, no!”

Phoebe’s hands twitched in their desire to ball into fists as she watched the scene unfold, but she kept them unclenched and folded her arms casually across her chest, schooling her features into an expression of supreme indifference. She noticed that Geralt, too, was observing with a dark look in his eyes. Meanwhile, the commander made a gesture of dismissal toward the soldiers, who grasped the peasant by the arms and dragged him away. Then, he turned his attention to the two of them.

“Guess you’ve dropped the good uncle act,” said Geralt sardonically.

“It was no act. I extended a hand to these people- they spat on it.” The commander gestured in the direction the soldiers had dragged the peasant.

“Maybe because it held the sword that killed their loved ones,” Phoebe quipped lightly. She saw Geralt raise his eyebrows at her out of the corner of her eye, but didn’t take her eyes off the Nilfgaardian.

“Hah,” the commander barked, brandishing a finger at her, “A moralist! And what would you do in my stead?”

Phoebe’s opened her mouth to retort, eyes narrowed, but Geralt took a step forward. “Wouldn’t ever be in your stead,” he said.

The commander sighed. “Tell me why you’ve come.”

Geralt took a few more steps forward as he spoke. “Fulfilled my end of the bargain. Your turn. Where’d Yennefer go?”

Phoebe’s eyes darted towards the witcher. He was looking for Yennefer of Vengerberg? Why?

“To Vizima.”

Geralt’s feline eyes darkened slightly. “She was right here in Temeria the whole time, under my nose? Might’ve said so,” he growled.

“Yes, I might have,” the commander admitted mildly. “But you would not have killed the griffin. Tit for tat.”

Geralt’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing; he simply turned on his heel and strode towards her and the gate. But before he even came level with her, the Nilfgaardian commander called after him.

“Halt!”

Geralt stopped in his tracks, his handsome features stony, but didn’t turn.

“We are not done,” the commander said. “It’s yours, this gold. I would not want you to say you were inadequately compensated.” He pulled out a small purse and held it out on his palm, and Geralt turned to face him.

Phoebe watched as Geralt’s mouth turned down in disdain. _He’s going to turn down payment for his hard work, all because of pride,_ she thought to herself irritably. Before he could open his mouth, she stepped forward and plucked the coinpurse lightly out of the Nilfgaardian commander’s hand, while Geralt stared at her with slightly widened eyes.

“Thanks,” she said buoyantly, and then turned her back on the commander, giving Geralt a meaningful look as she strode past him towards the gate. He followed, and they walked side-by-side in silence until they were halfway down the wooden steps.

“Wasn’t gonna take that bastard’s money,” he grumbled.

She tossed him the purse. “I know,” she said dryly as they reached the bottom of the stairs. “But ‘that bastard’ didn’t deserve free work from you.”

They mounted the horses and trotted on their way, taking the western road away from the garrison. “So, you’re looking for Yennefer of Vengerberg?”

“You know her?”

“Well, yes,” she said slowly, as if stating the obvious. “I met her when she came to get Ciri at the Temple of Melitele. She performed the spell that gave me back my memory.”

“Ah. Which brings me back to our earlier conversation.” They slowed the horses to a walk, having left the garrison far behind them. “The story of how you know Ciri. I wanna hear it from the beginning.”

“Not sure what you want me to tell you,” she said carefully. “I’m sure you already know all about our adventures between the Temple of Melitele and when she came back from Tir Ná Lia.”

“True, but you said you were with Ciri for the past six months. I have no idea about that, or where she’s been, what she’s been doing.”

She sighed, nodding. “When Ciri and I got trapped in Tir Ná Lia the first time, I got left behind when she escaped. I was there with Avallac’h for three years, unable to get back here.”

“As his prisoner?” Geralt was watching her intently.

“For some of it,” she nodded. She could see in Geralt’s expression that he was about to ask her more about that, so she barreled on before he got the chance. “Eventually Ciri showed up in Tir Ná Lia again, needing our help. She’d been running from the Wild Hunt for a long while, jumping from world to world, and wanted him to help her figure out a plan to defeat Eredin. She also wanted to learn to better control her portals. The three of us traveled to an uninhabited world and hid there for almost half a year. Avallac’h helped Ciri train and things were going well, but then the Wild Hunt found us. Ciri frantically opened a portal and we all went through it, but I got separated and landed here. I don’t know what happened to them after that.”

“Where was the portal supposed to take you?”

“She didn’t have time to say out loud,” she said, shaking her head, “so I have no idea.”

“Hmm. Listen, I don’t want to pry on where you’re headed right now, but seeing as we both have an interest in where Ciri is, what say we stick together as long as we’re both going the same direction? Might just be until Vizima, but who knows?”

She considered him a moment. If she said yes to traveling with him, she needed to be prepared for the moment where she would inevitably have to tell him her whole story. But she had to admit that even knowing him such a short time, she liked what she saw of Geralt of Rivia. In every situation they’d been in thus far, he had shown that he had his heart in the right place. Inexplicably, she felt a twinge of discomfort at the thought of them parting ways so soon.

“I don’t see why not,” she shrugged, smiling at him.

They rode in silence for some time. The road had been theirs alone up until now, but she could see that they were coming up on a small, rundown village. As they passed through the gates and made their way down the main road, the villagers stared openly at Geralt and whispered to each other, some of them even muttering insults loud enough for him to hear. Geralt didn’t react or retaliate, but she saw his jaw tighten. It was hard to watch, and sent a slight ripple of anger through her stomach.

When they reached the town’s notice board, he pulled Roach to a halt and dismounted to examine the various pieces of parchment nailed there.

“I thought you were in a rush,” she commented, arching an eyebrow.

“Wouldn’t mind having some extra coin if there’s something straightforward and easy on here. Never know what Yennefer’s going to get me into. Not sure how soon I’ll be able to take a contract again, so best get some done before seeing her.”

She inclined her head in understanding as he continued to peruse. “So, anything good?”

“This one sounds promising,” he said, ripping a strip of parchment off the board. “Big alghoul’s nest in the forest, been picking off villagers when they’re foraging. Should be child's play between the two of us.”

“Sure,” she agreed. “Where in the woods?”

“Doesn’t say. We’ll have to go talk to this Jorne fellow to get the details and talk about the reward. Notice says his house is the fourth one down.”

“Lead the way,” she said, dismounting and patting Rabbit on the neck. “Stay,” she murmured.

“Where’d you learn Elder Speech, anyway?” Geralt asked as they started off down the main village road.

“With Avallac’h in Tir Ná Lia. It’s not that far off from dryad dialect, so it wasn’t too hard.”

They had come up to a small hut with a straw roof. Phoebe leaned her shoulder on the doorframe and crossed her arms while Geralt knocked on the door. “Jorne?” he called.

After a moment, the door opened and a weather-worn man with smudgy eyes and a weak chin appeared. “What you want?”

“Saw your notice about the alghoul’s nest. I can take care of it, for a fee of course.”

“Aye. I know your kind never do anythin’ for free. I can’t offer much, but I managed to scrounge a bit o’ coin. How much are you askin’?”

“Fifty.”

The man sighed. “If I’d known you was going to ask that much, I’d’ve seen to it meself.”

“Then by all means, see to it,” Phoebe interjected coolly, straightening. “This man obviously doesn’t need us, Geralt. No point in spending his coin on professionals when he can handle it on his own. Come on.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder and turned her back on the peasant, walking off back towards the horses. Geralt followed, taking her cue, and they’d taken no more than five steps before they heard the peasant’s voice at their backs.

“Wait!”

Phoebe smirked up at Geralt as they turned. “Yes?” She raised her eyebrows innocently.

“Fine, I’ll pay ye bloody fifty.”

“Good man,” she smiled.

“Where’s the nest?” Geralt asked.

“That forest there,” the man said, pointing in the direction behind his hut.

“Thanks.” They turned and continued down the road towards the horses. “You drive a hard bargain,” Geralt muttered, his lips twitching into the slightest of smirks.

Phoebe detached her silver sword from her saddle and re-attached it to her back-scabbard. “Well, as an honorary witcher, I’m not about to be underpaid for my work,” she said dryly. “And anyway, that man was being ridiculous. He needed to be brought down a notch. ‘Tend to it himself.’ Don’t make me laugh.” They set off towards the forest, the afternoon sun bathing everything in gold as it hung low in the sky.

“Sorry the reward isn’t more,” Geralt said. “I know fifty between the two of us won’t come out to much-”

“We aren’t splitting it between the two of us. I’m just along for the ride, it’s still your contract.”

“That’s not exactly what I’d call fair.”

“I don’t need the coin, Geralt. Really.”

“If you insist,” he shrugged.

They crossed over the tree-line into the forest and moved quietly, listening and looking for any sign of the alghouls. Phoebe wrinkled her nose after a few moments. “I can smell them,” she commented with distaste.

“Hmm, so can I,” he growled. He drew his blade, and she followed suit. They stepped lightly for a few more moments, but there was still neither sight nor sound of the alghouls and their nest.

“I’m going to check through the trees,” Phoebe whispered. She speared her sword into the ground next to the nearest tree and loosened the fingers of one glove before sliding it off and placing her palm on the trunk. She let her consciousness flow in all directions through the vast network of roots, until finally she felt it- the thumping of many feet or paws matriculating around one central area. She opened her eyes and donned her glove again. “This way,” she told Geralt, jerking her head to the north.

They picked their way through the verdure, staying close, until suddenly Geralt halted, throwing his arm out to bar her way forward as well. His palm landed squarely on her stomach, and she tried to stifle the jolt through her insides, but she couldn’t help the small gasp that escaped her lips. He must’ve noticed, because he quickly withdrew.

“Shh, listen,” he muttered.

She stood stock-still, training her ears on the sounds of the forest around her, and sure enough, she heard it: the mingled snarling and hissing of a whole pack of alghouls. It was close, probably only fifty feet ahead, but the beasts were still obscured by trees.

“We should approach them from opposite directions,” she whispered. Geralt gave a nod, and they split off. She tiptoed around the perimeter of the sounds, drawing closer until finally she could see the beasts, at least fifteen of them, milling about an area strewn with corpses in various stages of decomposition, with a large mound in the middle that was easily recognizable as their nest. Phoebe silently climbed a tree just outside the edge of their clearing, positioning herself in a half-kneel, half-squat position on a branch low enough to easily jump off of. Then she notched an arrow in her bow and waited.

She could see Geralt on the other side of the nest, squatting amongst some brush, and when he looked up at her she brandished her bow slightly to show him her intentions. He gave a nod, then leapt out from his hiding place, taking the first alghoul unawares and decapitating it before it could make a move. He started on the next two, and Phoebe took aim and fired on a third coming up behind him, killing it with an arrow through the neck. She covered Geralt, notching and releasing arrow after arrow on any alghoul that advanced on him while he was busy fighting others. Within minutes all of the beasts were dead and Geralt was approaching the nest with a bomb in-hand. Phoebe dropped lightly from the branch and picked her way around the stinking corpses towards him.

“Gotta say,” he smiled as he stood over the nest, fumbling to light the bomb, “this sort of thing is a lot more fun with a wingwoman.” It was the first time she had seen him properly smile since meeting him, and it was a sight to behold. Not a sweet smile by any means, but rough and magnetic, and it made him look ten years younger.

She grinned at him, but before she could respond, an alghoul burst out of the nest, knocking Geralt onto his back. It swiped him savagely with its claws, leaving three deep gouges along his shoulder. Phoebe made no noise as she reflexively notched an arrow and let it fly. The arrow impaled the beast’s head and it collapsed on Geralt’s chest, where he immediately shoved it off. She jogged towards him. “You alright?” she asked breathlessly.

“Fine,” he grunted. She held out her hand to help him up and he grasped it, heaving himself to his feet. He finished lighting the bomb and set it on top of the nest. They both backed up several paces until the bomb exploded, leaving nothing in its wake but a black crater. Geralt turned to look at her, crossing his arms over his chest. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re very poised?”

She smiled slyly at him. “It’s been said once or twice.” She eyed his shoulder, which sported three long, ragged gashes seeping blood. “I’ll have to look at that later,” she said, nodding towards the wound.

“It’s nothing,” he dismissed.

She rolled her eyes. “That wasn’t a request, Geralt. I’m looking at it later. Come on, let’s get our fifty crowns and get the hell out of here.”

They made their way out of the forest and back towards the village, and Phoebe felt Geralt’s eyes on her as they walked. “Thanks for the help back there.”

“Don’t mention it,” she said breezily.

The sun was nearly set when they once again knocked on Jorne’s door.

“You again,” he groused upon opening it.

“Took care of the problem,” Geralt said. “Alghouls won’t be bothering you anymore.”

“How do I know you ain’t lyin’?” asked Jorne suspiciously.

“Go check the nest whenever you want. You’ll see that it’s been destroyed and there’s not an alghoul in sight.”

“Eh, fine. Here’s your gold. Now, sod off!” The old man shoved a purse into Geralt’s hand and slammed the door in their faces. Phoebe couldn’t suppress a snort of laughter as they turned and headed back up the road.

“Charming,” she quipped as they approached the horses. She stretched deeply before climbing nimbly onto Rabbit’s back. “Shall we make camp?”

“Mm-hmm,” Geralt hummed.

They headed back into the forest, finding a secluded spot next to a fallen tree, not too far from the village but still out of sight. Geralt immediately began to gather wood for a fire while Phoebe tended to the horses, untacking them, brushing them out, and giving them water. She paid special attention to Roach who, though healthy and well taken care of, had clearly not seen a thorough grooming in months. She murmured soothing words to the mare in Elder Speech as she worked, and could feel Geralt’s stare on her back, but ignored it. She didn’t care how much he scoffed at her; horses were invaluable companions and they should be treated as such. Geralt cleared his throat as she moved back towards her saddlebags and stowed her grooming supplies.

“Should I see if I can hunt something?” He surveyed the woods around them once the fire was built.

Phoebe shook her head, placing a small pot of water over the fire to boil. “No need, I have plenty of provisions we can eat. Now, let me have a look at your shoulder.” She rummaged in one of her saddlebags for some cloth, herbs, and a small mortar and pestle. When she looked back up to see that Geralt hadn’t moved and was still standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, staring at her blankly, she sighed heavily. “Come on. Take off your armor.”

“I said it’s nothing.”

_Men!_ she thought exasperatedly. _They’re all the god damn same._ “Oh, are you a doctor? No? Then stop posturing and take your armor off,” she retorted waspishly.

“You’re not a doctor, either, last time I checked.”

“Geralt, either you take off your armor on your own, or I Axii you to hell,” she threatened, straightening and putting her hands on her hips. "Either way, I get what I want, so take your pick." They glared at each other mulishly for a few seconds, but Geralt must have decided she meant business, because he huffed, sat down on the fallen tree trunk, and began unbuckling his spaulders. “Good choice,” she said brightly as she poured some water over each of her hands and scrubbed them thoroughly with a bar of soap. Then she carried her supplies over to the log and sat down next to him, straddling it so that she could use it as a makeshift workbench in the space between them. She placed her mortar down and set about tearing up some of her herbs and placing them into it, then picked up her pestle and began to grind.

When Geralt’s torso was bare before her, she raised her eyes and scooched closer to examine his wounds. She jolted slightly when her knee bumped against his thigh. It felt oddly exciting being in such close proximity to him, especially with his hard, muscled abdomen bare like this, and her stomach fluttered distractingly. She leaned forward and gently prodded around his wounds with her fingers, investigating their depth. It was hard to resist letting her eyes wander over his form as she worked. It was positively covered in scars big and small, but that only gave it the same rough appeal boasted by the rest of him. It was clear just by looking at all those jagged scars that having his wounds tended properly had never been part of his regular routine in life.

“These aren’t too deep, luckily.” She sat back and pushed herself to her feet. “With a good cleaning, a poultice and some bandages, they shouldn’t even scar.” She stepped over the log and towards the fire, using a cloth to grasp the now-boiling pot of water and bring it back to her work station. Placing it on the ground beside them, she sat as she had been before and continued to grind her herbs for a moment before using a dropper to deposit some of the hot water into the mortar to make a paste.

“What, no stitches?” he asked, looking over at her.

“Have you never had your wounds tended to by a healer?” she asked incredulously, raising her eyebrows.

“Does it look like I have?” he groused, moving a hand in a sweeping gesture over his scarred torso.

“Never, ever stitch any wound from the teeth or claws of an animal or monster,” she said firmly. “Especially necrophages. They’re much dirtier than other monsters, and stitching a wound from a bite or scratch can trap infection.”

“Guess it’s a good thing I never bothered to stitch any of my wounds, then.”

“Well if you’d bothered to at least clean them and bandage them, you wouldn’t have so many scars,” she said dryly.

“Hmm.” A few seconds passed in silence. “Always forget that all dryads are basically healers,” he said. He turned his head to lay his golden eyes on her as she took a clean cloth, dipped it into the hot water, scooted closer to him, and began to gently wash out his wounds. To his credit, he didn’t even flinch, though she could feel his muscles tensing under her hands. “What’s your story, anyway? Been meaning to ask. How did you even get out of Brokilon? I’ve met Queen Eithné, and it’s not like she would just let you walk out of there.”

She met his eyes for a moment, debating, but the fact was, she felt comfortable telling him the truth- even if it wasn’t necessarily the _whole_ truth. The way they were interacting, it felt familiar, easy. She felt in her gut that she could trust him. “Actually, I partially have you to thank for the fact that I was able to escape,” she said. Geralt furrowed his eyebrows at her. “The dryads took me late in life.” She dropped her eyes back to her work. “I was thirteen, and even age ten is pushing it in terms of how completely a girl will be able to cross over when she drinks the Waters of Brokilon.

“But Eithné is a very aggressive ruler, as I’m sure you know. Any girl thirteen or under would be subject to the transformation if they found themselves lost in that forest, no matter who they were.” She continued to dab around the wounds, cleaning the entire area and wiping away the dried blood. “I’m not sure how much you know about dryad transformations, but there are factors other than age that can influence the completeness of the transformation. A person’s happiness in their life, and how much they have holding them to that life, are big factors. An orphan with no joy or love in their life will be much easier to wipe into a clean slate than someone with a good, happy life and loving family.”

Geralt nodded. “When Ciri and I were there, they tried to transform her. But she so badly wanted to become a witcher and stay with me that the Waters had no effect on her.”

Phoebe nodded. “I was very, very close with my parents, and I was a happy child with lots of interests and hobbies. That, combined with my age, was an ill-fated combination for my life as a dryad. I didn’t have the added strength of the Elder Blood like Ciri, so the Waters of Brokilon succeeded in wiping all my memories and in many ways I was a better dryad than some of the natural-born. But a lot of my personality traits and interests from my old life lingered, and I just could never shake the feeling that something was off, like I was an impostor who didn’t truly belong there.” She had stopped her ministrations, her fingers lingering on his warm skin as she lost herself in the memories.

“The night I was taken, the leader of the party who escorted me was Braenn. She made a point of asking my name and where I was from, and I didn’t know it at the time but she also made sure to keep hidden some of my items of sentimental value when they took my clothing after I was transformed. She didn’t tell me the reasoning behind those actions right away, but in the meantime she made sure I was trained as a warrior and took me under her wing.”

Geralt’s feline eyes were riveted on her as she spoke. “After about two years, Braenn finally revealed to me that a couple years before I was transformed, you and Ciri had come to Duén Canell, and that the experience she’d had with the two of you had changed her feelings about transformed dryads. Transforming girls didn’t sit right with her anymore, especially older ones, and I was the first girl over the age of ten to be brought in after she met you. She wanted to give me the tools to escape and find my old life if that’s what I desired, so when I was fifteen she gave me back the items she’d hidden for me and helped me get out of there.”

“I tried to get Braenn to escape with us,” Geralt recalled somberly. “But she wouldn’t go.”

Phoebe snapped out of her reverie and went back to her work, scraping the poultice she had prepared out of her mortar and smearing it into Geralt’s wounds. “I know, she told me. She felt it was too late for her. She was very close with Eithné and also one of her best warriors. I think another reason she was so hell-bent on helping me was, Eithné wanted Braenn to dedicate herself more as an advisor than a warrior, and she clearly viewed me as an eventual candidate to take Braenn’s place. I picked up fighting very quickly and had a natural affinity for magic- Braenn even sometimes wondered if I might be a source. Against all odds, I actually ended up having the makings of a very powerful dryad, and I was becoming a valuable asset to the queen. Braenn knew that if I lingered too long and became too ensconced in Eithné’s inner circle, I’d never be able to leave.” She tore a cloth into strips and began to wrap Geralt’s shoulder.

“Braenn thought you were a source?” Geralt asked, intrigued.

“She wondered about it,” Phoebe nodded. “My signs are much more powerful than what would be considered normal, and they seem to be tied to my emotions. But I personally don’t think I’m a source. There were no manifestations of magic in my life before I was transformed. I think I just have a deeper connection to magic than other dryads for whatever reason.”

“Usually a source’s powers crop up in times of extreme stress or duress during childhood. You said you had a happy upbringing, so maybe you just never had a triggering event.”

“Hmm, Avallac’h said the same,” she said thoughtfully.

“Oh, yeah?” She felt Geralt stiffen slightly. “What was his take on the whole situation?”

“He said we may never truly know if I am one or not, because I was mutated into a dryad before my powers could manifest themselves naturally. He thinks it’s very possible, though, and that maybe I’ve had no flare-ups of power in adulthood because I trained myself to be so controlled when I was in Brokilon.”

“What do you mean, ‘trained yourself to be so controlled’?”

“Well, I was always afraid that Eithné or any of the other dryads would sense that something was off with me, or that I felt I didn’t belong there, and I would be found out. I learned to never let my inner feelings show, and then spending three years with Avallac’h, well… you know how he is. Restraint personified. That only strengthened what I’d already been practicing- the ‘poise’ you brought up earlier.”

She tied off the strip of cloth and changed the subject before Geralt could ask anymore questions. “All done,” she said lightly, collecting her supplies and rising to her feet. She moved towards her saddlebags and put her healing supplies away in one before opening the other and pulling out bread, olives, thin slices of cured pork, and a tomato.

“So, when you threatened to ‘Axii me to hell,’ that wasn’t an empty threat? You’d actually be able to do that?” He eyed her as he began to don his armor again.

“Most likely,” she shrugged, smirking at him as she moved back to sit next to the fire.

“Noted,” he muttered, watching as she sliced the tomato and drizzled it with garlic-infused oil, salt, and pepper, then drizzled the olives with the oil as well. “Quite a spread,” he said, impressed. He took the hunk of bread she offered him and topped it with a slice each of pork and tomato.

“I find travel like this to be much more bearable if I can manage to eat food I like.” She felt his eyes on her as she popped an olive into her mouth, but he quickly shifted his gaze when she looked up. “So, what about you? What’s your story? Why are you looking for Yennefer in Vizima?”

“Not sure, to be honest,” he admitted. “Got a letter from her telling me to meet her in Willoughby, that it was important. But when I showed up I found a destroyed village and no Yennefer. She obviously ran from some kind of battle, and left plenty of clues behind. Ran into Vesemir along the way, and we’ve been tracking her movements since. Other than that, I know as much as you. But after what you told me about Ciri, and now knowing that Yennefer’s in Vizima, I have a feeling Ciri’s the reason for all of this.”

“Hmm.” She broke off a piece of bread for herself. They passed the rest of the evening easily, talking about this and that, until finally the day’s events seemed to catch up with her and she felt her eyelids starting to droop.

“I’ll keep watch,” said Geralt. “You get some sleep.”

“We’ll take turns. Just wake me up in a few hours-”

“I don’t need much sleep. Fact is, I’m used to going days without it. Go on.”

“Well, if you insist,” she smiled tiredly. She got to her feet and clambered lightly up into the nearest tree, choosing a comfortable branch and closing her eyes. “‘Night,” she called down.

“‘Night.”


	4. Chapter 4

_Road to Vizima, Temeria_

_April 1272_

He had allowed himself to drift into a state of partial meditation- still aware enough of his surroundings to react if something should happen, but also somnolent enough to take some rest. After Briaris had gone to sleep, he had spent a long time mulling over their day together and everything he had learned, especially the revelations about her life as a dryad. He wondered if she truly was a source. If so, and if anyone found out about it, she would probably be highly sought after by the Lodge. He couldn’t remember ever hearing of a dryad who was a source, but it was true that there were subtle ways in which she was different from other dryads he’d seen. He couldn’t speak for her sign casting because he hadn’t seen much of it, but the way she used the trees to sense what was nearby was something special- definitely not common to most dryads.

His mind also kept circling back to the odd coincidences between her journey and his own: the way his visit to Duén Canell had ended up affecting her future so intrinsically, and the fact that the chain reaction he set off had led to her becoming Ciri’s best friend, and eventually to the crossing of their paths yesterday in White Orchard. He found himself hoping that seeing Yennefer in Vizima didn’t result in him having to part ways with Briaris. The more he learned, the more time he spent with this girl, the less he was able to shake the feeling that there were some ministrations of fate at work in their meeting, and that splitting up would be a mistake.

On top of that, a residual feeling from their one day together seemed to stick with him, one he didn’t immediately recognize, lingering buoyantly somewhere under his diaphragm. He spent some time puzzling over what it was, but then it hit him: it was the feeling of contentment, of leftover fizzing excitement, that was only felt after having a good day. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d described something as fun, but being with her today had been… _fun_. That Nilfgaardian commander using him, being treated poorly by some peasant in a village, having to kill fifteen alghouls- all banal parts of a witcher’s arduous existence- somehow ended up being the makings of a day he looked back on fondly, thanks to her.

The way she seemed to let everything roll off her back, never taking it too seriously, made it easier for _him_ to not take everything so seriously. It felt good to have an ally, one that didn’t treat him like shit, or try to use him, or have some overly-long complicated history with him. He enjoyed her witty sense of humor, and he knew it might be wrong, but he couldn’t pretend he didn’t notice the visceral jolt in his body whenever they touched. It was all he could do just to focus on what she was saying earlier, with her sitting so close and her fingers stroking his bare skin so gently.

Still, though, there were questions that remained unanswered. Her time in Tir Ná Lia, for example- what could a teenage dryad possibly do with only Avallac’h for company for three years? She had alluded to the fact that she was only a prisoner for some of her time there- what about the rest of it? Had she been Avallac’h’s protegée? His lover? Her mention of him teaching her Elder Speech, and even just the fact that he had an opinion on whether she was a source or not, were evidence that there must be some closeness between them. He wasn’t sure why that made him so uncomfortable, made his hands feel like balling into fists.

And, of course, there was the question of her true identity. He had sensed that she was going out of her way to withhold on that topic for whatever reason, and while he would respect that for now, the time would come where he would demand answers.

He internalized all of these thoughts and feelings as he meditated, until slowly his mind began to go blank and true rest was finally able to take hold. It felt as though only moments had gone by, however, before he was roused by the sound of a commotion some distance above his head. Gasping, accompanied by low, panicked vocalizations, reached his ears. Opening his eyes, he followed the sounds to the branches overhead where Briaris was sleeping.

He couldn’t see her from down here even after widening his pupils as far as they would go, but he could hear that her breathing was near hyperventilation, as well as a start-stop rustling of leaves, as if she were jerking her head back and forth. He got to his feet when he heard her whimper fearfully.

“Briaris,” he called lowly.

“No, no, no, no, _no!_ _Avallac’h!_ ” Her voice came out a wail, shaking with sheer terror. He heard the crack of a branch, and suddenly she was falling, her small, lithe form coming into view, growing larger as she plummeted towards him, and he instinctively stepped forward and held out his arms just in time for her to land in them with a hard thud. The impact woke her immediately, but her brimming eyes were far away and wild with fear, darting around as she thrashed in his arms, tears streaming down her face as she sobbed. “Where is Avallac’h? He’s hurt, I need to help him, he’s _hurt!”_

The commotion roused Rabbit, who was now snorting and pawing the earth where he and Roach were tethered nearby, the whites of his eyes gleaming in fear for his owner. “She’s fine, I’ve got her,” Geralt grunted at the stallion in Elder Speech as he tried to keep a hold of Briaris’s squirming body. “Calm, friend. She’s safe.”

Geralt lowered himself and Briaris to the ground and braced a hand on her cheek, forcing her to look at him. “Hey. Hey! It’s Geralt. You’re in the forest. We’re traveling to Vizima. Avallac’h isn’t here. You had a bad dream.” Her shallow panting began to slow as she came back to herself, and he was able to register the exact second where her eyes recognized him again.

With a sharp gasp, she sat up in his arms, pivoted on his lap to face him, and braced her shaking hands urgently on his shoulders. He tried hard to ignore her proximity, her body pressed against his and all the heat it was emanating right now, her scent filling his nostrils, the way her wide amber eyes shone when they were filled with tears. “Geralt-” she sobbed, her voice breaking off as it trembled with fear. “Geralt, something’s wrong. I’ve had the same dream about Avallac’h for three nights in a row now. At first it’s just a memory, we’re talking and.. and.. but then suddenly he’s being stabbed, and his blood is all over, and then he’s gone, and at first I thought it was nothing, just exhaustion, but now… Something’s _wrong,_ he’s in danger, someone’s done something to him!”

Truth be told, Geralt was feeling very confused by the idea of anyone being this upset about something bad befalling Avallac’h, but he pushed that aside. He could ask questions about it later. More pressing was Briaris’s hysterical state; it felt disquieting to see her so overwrought, when in all of his encounters with her thus far, even ones where they were in mortal peril, she had been so... unruffled. But now her words were punctuated by great gasps, she was shaking like a leaf, and he needed to do something. He took her face in his hands. “Hey,” he said firmly. “You need to breathe. Come on. Deep breath in, deep breath out. In…out. In…out.” She followed his cues, her eyes latched onto his as though for dear life, and he waited until he was satisfied that her breathing was somewhat normal before addressing her earlier words.

“As for Avallac’h, I don’t know if your dreams are just coincidence or something more. But in a couple of days we’ll be in Vizima, talking to Yennefer and Ciri’s father. One of them might know something.” She nodded at him, more tears leaking out of her eyes, and took a shaky breath. “Come on, keep breathing,” he urged, releasing her face and reaching around to place his hand bracingly on her back. She did as she was told, inhaling and exhaling deeply, and soon her eyelids had begun to droop again and she was growing limp in his arms. “You should sleep some more,” he murmured, shifting to lay her down on the sleeping pallet he had rolled out for himself but not slept in. Her eyes were closed again before she touched the ground.

“Don’t leave me,” she slurred, barely intelligible, as he pulled away.

“Not going anywhere,” he said, leaning his back against the tree and propping one knee up to rest an elbow on. He kept his gaze on her face until her breathing evened out, and then rested his head back against the rough bark, closing his eyes to meditate once more.

~

When he opened his eyes again to find the sun high in the sky and an empty pallet beside him, he jerked upright so fast that it made him lightheaded. His eyes searched the completely cleaned-up campsite until they found Briaris, doing up the final buckles on Roach’s tack. Rabbit stood nearby, fully tacked up already.

He pushed himself to his feet, rubbing a hand groggily over his face. “Hey,” he rasped, approaching her. “You alright?”

“I’m fine,” she said lightly, turning back to finish fastening Roach’s bridle. “Sorry about last night. Didn’t mean to worry you.”

“No problem.” He came to stand facing her on the other side of Roach’s head, but she immediately turned her back on him again, making as if to adjust Rabbit’s bridle now. He crossed his arms over his chest. “You were pretty shaken up. Think we should talk about it more. You weren’t exactly able to give me a lot of detail.”

He heard her sigh and watched from behind as she stilled her movements. “There’s nothing to talk about,” she dismissed, but her voice sounded strained. “I’ve been exhausted and anxious about where Ciri and Avallac’h are, and it’s leaking into my dreams, that’s all.”

“Sorry, but not good enough.” Geralt tried to be careful to toe the line between firm and gentle. But he was going to get answers before they went any further.

“Well, it’s going to have to be,” she retorted testily.

“Look, if we’re going to look for Ciri together, you’re gonna need to be straight with me. What’s your deal with Avallac’h? Since we met, we’ve been in three life-and-death situations together, and I didn’t see you panic during a single one of them. Then last night you’re outta your mind over a dream about Avallac’h. Something doesn’t add up.” The conversation was quickly turning argumentative, which was the opposite of his intention.

“There’s a great difference between how I am with drowners, alghouls, and perfect strangers, and how I am with people who are important to me,” she retorted, still not turning to face him.

“So Avallac’h’s important to you, then?”

“He was all I had for three years; of course he’s important to me,” she ground out, her back rigid.

He should let it go, let it de-escalate, he knew that- but he was getting riled up, and he didn’t even know why. “Important to you how? As a teacher? A friend? A lover?”

“Why do you care?” she shot back.

“Answer the question.” His voice hardened slightly in spite of himself.

She finally whirled on him, her hair swishing over one shoulder, and he saw that her eyes were positively glowing, as if someone had lit a torch behind them. “Yes,” she hissed, eyes filling with tears and overflowing. “Yes! He’s important to me as a teacher, a friend, a lover, _all of it,_ and for the last three nights I’ve seen him brutally murdered right in front of my eyes!” She jabbed a finger at her own chest. “I know in my _soul_ that wherever he is in this very moment, he is _suffering,_ ” she continued to advance on him, her eyes burning brighter than ever. “And right now, there is absolutely _nothing_ I can do about it except for stay calm and get to where we’re going. So are you going to help me do that, or not?” She stood panting only a foot in front of him, eyes ablaze with what he initially thought was anger, but now realized was pure, unadulterated panic.

Geralt suddenly felt slightly ashamed of himself. He’d seen plainly enough the night before how distressed these nightmares had left her, and yet he had barged in with an interrogation first thing when she had just been trying to maintain a sense of calm and focus on what she needed to do next. On top of that, it dawned on him that as someone who made a routine of keeping her deeper emotions hidden at all times, she must feel embarrassed about having had such an episode in front of a stranger. He felt guilty for letting his own personal feelings about Avallac’h get the best of him.

“Yeah, I can,” he muttered. “Sorry.”

She sighed, closing her eyes and grimacing as she pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. “I’m sorry, too,” she murmured. “I don’t even know why I’m losing my temper- you were only trying to help. These nightmares have just put me on edge.”

“Same here, clearly,” he grunted, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Look, let’s just put this behind us and hit the road.”

“Agreed.”

Geralt rolled up his pallet and attached it to his saddle while Briaris mounted. When he, too, was mounted and ready, they set off.

They rode in tense silence for what felt like hours, and it was past midday before that silence was broken, when Geralt saw what looked to be a bandit encampment up ahead in the distance. He reined Roach up, grateful for some way to break the ice, even if it was bandits.

“ _Voe’rle,”_ Briaris murmured, and Rabbit eased to a halt.

“Bandit camp,” Geralt said. “What do you think? Go around or try to ride through?”

She shielded her eyes with a hand and surveyed the camp silently for a moment, seemingly considering the options. “I don’t really feel like spending the energy on them if they try to mess with us. Let’s just go around.”

They set off at a trot towards the nearby forest, silence descending upon them once more. Once inside the tree-line, they slowed to a walk to minimize noise.

Their exchange hadn’t been quite the tension-breaker he’d hoped for, so he tried again. “You only use vocal cues,” he remarked.

“Hm?” She looked around at him questioningly.

“With him,” he clarified, nodding towards Rabbit’s head. “You only use vocal cues. I haven’t seen you kick him with your heels or pull on the reins.”

“Oh.” She turned her head to face forward again. “Yeah, I try to only do that if it’s a real emergency. He can understand me just fine, so why bother? Roach probably would, too, if you tried.”

There was a rather heavy pause, where only the muffled thumping of the horses’ hooves could be heard.

“Any more contracts before Vizima?” she asked.

“If we come across something straightforward, then sure. Shouldn’t delay too much longer, though. Yennefer’ll be getting impatient.”

“Yennefer, impatient? Can’t picture it,” she quipped sardonically.

Geralt felt a spark of defensiveness for Yennefer; he couldn’t help it, even though he knew better. Still, he kept his tone carefully neutral when he spoke. “Get the sense you’re not Yen’s biggest fan.”

“You sense correctly,” she said flatly.

“Thought you said she was the one who gave you back your memory.” He tried to keep the acidity out of his voice. “Seems to me like you should be grateful.”

Briaris looked at him sharply, her eyes adamantine. “If Yennefer’d had her way, she wouldn’t have lifted a finger to help me. She only did so because Ciri threatened not to cooperate if she didn’t. So no, I’m not especially grateful.”

“Sorry.” He felt a stab of guilt. “Can’t help but get defensive of her. Yen and I have… a lot of history.”

“So I’ve heard,” she said dryly. The tense silence was back and thicker than ever, and they rode through it until the bandit camp was behind them.

“We can probably get back to the road now,” he muttered awkwardly as they passed through a small clearing.

But she had slowed Rabbit to a halt and was dismounting. “No,” she said, leading Rabbit to the edge of the clearing and tying him up. Then, much to his befuddlement, she drew her steel sword. “I think we should spar.”

“What?”

“There’s a weird energy between us today, and I cant deal with this strained atmosphere for the next however many hours. We need to blow off some steam. Come on.”

Geralt didn’t doubt her skill and truth be told, sparring did sound good. But the risk of hurting her held him back. “I’m too big for you.”

“And I’m too fast for you. I’m sure we’ll manage. Come _on,_ Geralt.”

“We’re aren’t well-matched,” he argued. “I’ll just end up hurting you.”

She grinned at him. “On the contrary, I think we’re perfectly matched. Try me.”

He heaved a great sigh, but dismounted, leading Roach to tie her up next to Rabbit.

“Fine,” he groused. _I’ll just have to go easy_. He drew his steel sword, and they circled each other slowly around the clearing. “What are the rules?”

“Don’t kill each other?” she chaffed breezily.

“I’m serious.”

“Don’t kill or seriously injure each other?”

He sighed. “Have it your way.”

They held their swords at the ready, his held lightly in one hand to the side, hers held in both hands with the hilt up next to her cheek and the tip pointing at him. He made no move to attack, and after a few more seconds she whirled towards him, swinging her sword over her head as she went. He lifted his blade, blocking her blow, and she twisted to the side to disengage her blade from his. She came at him again from behind but he sidestepped her, and her blade whistled by him, hitting the grass beside his feet. Undeterred, she whirled on him again, and again he blocked, stepping backwards out of her space.

“Stop it,” she snarled, her skin becoming dewy with the first traces of sweat.

“What?”

“Stop withholding!”

Again and again she came at him, but still he made no attacks, only blocking and dodging. Finally she straightened, fixing her burning eyes on his, a dark smirk toying about her lips as she stabbed her sword into the ground. “Fine,” she said lightly, unbuckling her cuirass. “You fucking asked for it,” he heard her add under her breath.

It was hard to resist following her movements with his eyes as she peeled off the leather garment and tossed it casually to the side, revealing her white bastian underneath, which was cinched from just under her breasts to the top of her breeches with a leather corset lined on the outside with chainmail. Geralt’s eyes followed the top line of the corset as it curved to a slight peak in between her breasts, mirrored by a similar dip at the bottom edge. The ties of her bastian were fastened just loosely enough to allow a glimpse of flesh through the gaps, and Geralt tried to look anywhere but there. When his gaze drifted upwards, he saw for the first time that she wore a golden chain around her neck, on which a flat oval pendant the size of an olive hung to just below the dip of her throat. It had two blue jewels set in it, one near the top and one near the bottom, and in between the jewels were engraved initials that he strained to decipher.

He was jolted back to reality when she abruptly wrenched her sword from the ground and came at him in one lightning-fast movement; he only just got his blade up in time, and then it was as if she’d vanished, only to reappear to his side a split second later with an overhead swing straight towards his neck. He again was just able to sidestep in time, and he quickly realized that she had been holding back, too. She was lightning fast and surprisingly strong for her size, and Geralt knew if he didn’t start fighting back soon, one of her strokes might actually land. She came at him mercilessly, each blow getting closer to actually striking him until, on instinct, he twisted out of the way on the ball of one foot and came down on her hard with an overhead stroke of his own. She rolled lightly to the side, landing back on her feet and grinning triumphantly at him.

He lunged at her again with an upward stroke this time, but she leapt backwards, then feinted to the side when his blade was at its highest and swungat his exposed midsection. He twisted out of the way at the last second, and they continued this way, swinging and dodging and parrying, until they both stood panting with a sheen of sweat coating their skin.

Try as he might, Geralt couldn’t keep his eyes off Briaris as he caught his breath. Her cheeks were flushed. A few tendrils of her dark hair had come loose around her face and were clinging to her skin prettily. Every bare patch of skin was shining with sweat, and her white bastian clung damply to her chest, which he once again did his best not to look at.

She dropped her sword and flopped onto her back on the ground, grinning up at him. “I feel like a huge knot was just untied in my stomach,” she panted.

“I know what you mean.” He himself felt like a weight had been lifted from his insides.

“Come on.” She patted the grass next to her. “Let’s catch our breath for a moment before moving on.”

He lowered himself to the ground by her head, bending both knees to rest his elbows on. In close proximity, he was able to pick up her sweaty musk mixed in with the usual cedar, neroli, and iris. He inhaled subtly.

“I underestimated you,” he said.

“A common mistake,” she replied mildly.

“Gotta admit, this was a good idea.”

“Maybe we should do it more often. Regular training, to keep loose.”

“Might be useful on days where we don’t have contracts.”

“If we even travel together long enough for that,” she said neutrally, her gaze fixed upwards towards the sky.

“Yeah,” he assented, his voice flat. “If we even travel together long enough for that.”

They passed a few moments in silence, waiting for their breaths to return to normal, before she sat up and got to her feet. “Well, guess we’ve dawdled enough,” she sighed, moving towards her discarded cuirass, shrugging it back on, and buckling it up. He realized as she fastened it closed over her chest that he hadn’t taken the opportunity to look at the lettering on her pendant. She walked back over to where he was sitting and picked up her sword, then extended her other hand towards him. He glanced up at her in mild surprise, before grasping her hand and pulling himself to his feet. Sheathing her sword behind her back as she approached the horses, she looked over her shoulder at him.

“So, what’s the plan now?”

“Should reach a village before nightfall if we gallop.” He vaulted onto Roach’s back. “We can see if there are any contracts. If there are, we camp nearby and take care of it in the morning before heading on to Vizima. If not, we see if we come across something tomorrow.”

“Right.” She untied Rabbit and mounted. “Lead the way.”

They galloped for two hours in all, breaking periodically to let the horses rest, before they reached the next village. He steeled himself against the usual disdainful stares and hissed insults as they trotted down the main road towards the notice board, and he could see Briaris watching him closely out of the corner of his eye.

As he’d done yesterday, he dismounted when they reached the board and scanned the scraps of parchment there. One in particular caught his eye.

_“A handsome reward to any man who can destroy the foul beast that has made its nest in my field. -Symon”_

“This one seems simple enough.” He yanked the parchment down and handed it up to Briaris, whose eyes scanned it thoughtfully.

“‘Foul beast that has made its nest in my field’… Draconid of some sort?”

“Most likely. Have to find Symon to find out.”

She jumped down from Rabbit’s back. The sun hung low in the sky, bathing everything in pink as they started down the road. Geralt approached the first peasant they came across, a middle-aged woman in a threadbare woolen gown who was fetching water from a barrel outside her hut.

“Looking for someone by the name of Symon.”

“Back from me, demon,” she spat, before storming back into her hut and slamming the door.

Geralt clenched his jaw but kept silent, moving along down the road to the next peasant, a man with a thick black beard sitting outside his hut with a pipe in his mouth. Briaris was trailing behind him, but he swore he could feel her eyes burning into his back.

“Looking for Symon. Know where he lives?”

“We don’t need your kind o’ degenerate here,” the man rasped, glaring up at him. “Begone!”

Geralt was about to move on to the next one, but suddenly Briaris was stepping past him, her eyes glowing again, though much more dimly than they had this morning. He watched, stunned, as she approached the man smoothly, lowering into a squat in front of him. Then she moved her fingers into a series of gestures that Geralt recognized to be Axii.

The man’s eyes immediately turned glassy, his pipe dropping right out of his mouth as it slackened. When Briaris spoke, her voice was soft velvet, and Geralt felt a strange ripple go through him.

“Apologize to my friend for your rudeness.”

The man turned his head vaguely in Geralt’s direction, his eyes struggling to focus. “Sorry… sir…” he said dazedly.

“Good. Now, be a lamb and tell us where Symon lives.”

“Two… houses… down.” He pointed a lazy finger to the left.

“Thank you,” she said sweetly, rising to her feet and turning back to face Geralt, eyes mostly back to normal but still gleaming softly. She jerked her head in the direction of Symon’s house, and he fell in beside her as they walked, feeling a strange tingle in his chest.

“Didn’t have to do that,” he muttered.

“What, am I supposed to just sit by and let you get verbally abused by every man, woman, and child in this village?”

“I’m used to the way they act. Been dealing with it almost a hundred years now.”

“That doesn’t make it any less sickening to watch,” she said flatly.

“Did you Axii him ‘to hell’?” He raised a sardonic eyebrow at her.

She gave him a sly smile. “Nah. But he might be out of it for a couple days.”

“Have you ever?”

“Ever what?”

“Axii’ed someone to the point of no return.”

“Not so far. But if this is what it’s like traveling with you, then at this rate…” She shrugged wryly. He hid a smirk.

They had reached Symon’s door, and she hung back while Geralt stepped forward and knocked. The door opened to reveal a middle aged man with a leathery but not altogether unkind face, sandy hair, and blue eyes.

“Yeh?”

“Here about the beast in your field.”

The man raised his eyes skyward. “Thank you, Melitele, my crops are saved after all!”

“Hang on. Let’s talk about the reward first. I want a hundred fifty crowns.”

The man shook his head. “Mos’ I can give you’s a hundred.”

“Fine,” Geralt ground out. “What can you tell me about the beast?”

“Foul thing. Showed up two weeks past. Can’t go nowhere near me fields since, lest it kill me.”

“What’s it look like?”

“Almos’ like a dragon, only with great horns comin’ out its head. Reddish color with long back legs an’ no front ones.”

“Where’s your field?”

“Further along the road west, jus’ after the village.”

Geralt gave a nod. “Thanks.” He turned and started back towards the horses, Briaris at his side.

“So, are we in agreement that it’s a royal wyvern?”

“Yeah. We make camp, get some rest, then tackle it tomorrow morning. We can make it to Vizima by tomorrow night if we’re quick about it.”

“Right.” She seemed slightly subdued as they rode out into the forest, and he wondered if the cause of it was the same heaviness he was feeling deep in his stomach. He felt even more averse to the prospect of them parting ways tomorrow after what had just happened. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had stepped in like that to defend him in such a mundane situation, and for no other reason than kindness. The deadly calm way she went about it, too… watching it had caused a rush in his nether regions that he’d had to quickly stifle.

And even though the morning had been tense, he was now looking back on another day with Briaris that could only be categorized as… fun. Sparring together, galloping side by side, watching her wrap that peasant around her little finger, just for him… No, today hadn’t been a bad day at all. _Wonder if all my days would be like this if we stuck together._ The thought didn’t make tomorrow’s looming events any easier to think about. For the first time ever, Geralt was wishing he could put off seeing Yennefer, if only just for a little while.

They made camp a little ways into the woods, going about building a fire and tending to the horses in somber but comfortable silence. He removed his armor without protest this time when she asked him to show her his shoulder, and they sat on the ground, him cross-legged and her kneeling at his side. Sitting like this, her head came level with his, and he could feel her warm breath on his skin as she worked. He stifled another jolt behind his navel and cast around for something to say while she gently washed out his wounds, savoring the electricity of her soft, nimble fingers.

“Maybe I won’t have to go anywhere,” he said quietly. Her eyes flitted up to his, and he saw his own apprehension mirrored back at him in their amber depths before they lowered back to her work.

“Maybe.”

When it was time to bed down, she seemed to hesitate.

“You can sleep down here.” He gestured to his pallet. “That way there’s no risk of falling out of a tree if you have a nightmare.”

“But what about you?”

“Was just gonna meditate anyway,” he lied. He thought he saw a knowing look in her eye as she came to sink down on the pallet and began unlacing her boots, but she said nothing. Then she slipped underneath the furs and lay down on her back. He sat against the tree he’d set his pallet up next to, as she settled in with one arm up behind her head and the other resting over the furs on her stomach.

She raised her eyes to meet his, and for a second it seemed as if she wanted to say something. But she kept silent, continuing to gaze up at him, and he didn’t speak or break the contact until her copiously-lashed eyelids fluttered closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Voe'rle - Halt


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello to anyone who's been reading this fic! i realized that i haven't really been leaving notes on the chapters at all, so just wanted to pop my head up and say what's up, and thank you to everyone who left kudos, bookmarked, or subscribed. the idea for this story came to me while playing way too much witcher in quarantine and i've been having a blast writing it. i hope you're enjoying it so far, and would love to hear your thoughts if you feel like sharing them :)

_Road to Vizima, Temeria_

_April 1272_

Phoebe was reluctant to wake to the day that would likely separate her from Geralt, but she felt the sun strong against her eyelids, and finally she could put it off no longer.

Geralt was the early riser this morning, having packed everything away and readied the horses before she woke. He was dispersing the charred wood from their fire with his foot when she stirred and finally sat up.

“Morning.” Her throat felt tight, her voice hoarse.

“Sleep well?”

She paused for a second, realizing. “Actually, yeah.” Her eyes shot up to meet his. “I didn’t have the nightmare.”

“I noticed.” He seemed tense, his lips pressed into a line as he looked at her, and she was sure she knew why.

“I’ll be ready in just a minute,” she said, pushing aside the furs and pulling her boots towards her. “Just have to put my boots on.”

The atmosphere was all wrong, full of heaviness, and she could feel herself growing more and more agitated inside as time went on. It was true that she still didn’t really know Geralt; it hadn’t even been a week since they’d met, after all. But what she did know, somehow, was that she didn’t want to be parted from him so soon. She liked working with him, talking to him, looking at him, fighting with him... just everything. She had heard about that thing, that _spark_ that happened between people sometimes, the instant connection making it seem as if they’d known each other for ages when in fact they were strangers, but she’d never felt it. Not with Avallac’h, anyway, and he was the only other man who had been in her life. With him, it had been the opposite of an instant connection; it had been painstaking, built on minutiae, detail by detail, layer by layer, day by day over a period of years.

But Geralt... With Geralt, she finally felt it- that _thing._ The stolen, lingering glances, easy banter, wandering eyes, the twist of anger in her gut every time someone insulted him, the shock to the insides every time they touched… And yet here they were, on their way to Vizima to meet his lover who, according to Ciri and all the songs, was living proof that soulmates existed. _Why am I doing this to myself again?_ she wondered darkly as they galloped in silence through the village to Symon’s field. _Growing feelings for someone I know is destined for someone else._

For it was the same with Avallac’h. He loved her well enough, she knew. But though it was unspoken, it was very much known between them that his heart truly belonged to Ciri, even if Ciri herself wasn’t ready for that truth yet. That had been supremely painful at first, but not for very long- what future could they have together, realistically? He belonged in Tir Ná Lia and she belonged here. So she’d resolved herself to savor what they had together, and be prepared to say goodbye when the time came. She should’ve resolved the same with Geralt. She knew better than to want so freely, to _trust_ so freely.

By the time they arrived at the field and dismounted, the turbulence inside her was becoming hard to bear. She was almost grateful when she laid eyes on the royal wyvern in the distance, setting its sights on them, furling and unfurling its wings and tossing its great, terrible head. She needed to kill something.

The wyvern was huge- it resembled a dragon more than a wyvern, all told, and she knew that a single blow to either of them would be fatal, if not from the impact then from its potent venom.

She felt Geralt look over at her as they stood at the edge of the field, and she turned her head to meet his gaze, just for a second, before facing front again. If she looked at him too long, she feared she might cry. She saw his eyebrows raise slightly in surprise and knew that her eyes must be flaming right now; she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this agitated, her heart hammering and fingers itching for her blade as they walked towards the wyvern and its nest. Geralt drew his sword, bending his knees slightly and assuming a more defensive stance, but she remained upright, her sword still in its scabbard, her bow still in its quiver.

Predictably, the beast used its formidable back legs to propel itself into the air and begin circling as soon as they were within the vicinity of its nest, but she was ready. Channeling as much of her inner turmoil as possible into her hands, she cast an Aard that sent it back to the ground with such force that it broke its wing and likely a few ribs on impact with a piercing screech and a sickening crunch, rendering it earth-bound for the remainder of the fight. Geralt gave her a stunned look before springing into action, slashing at the wyvern’s side before it regained its footing.

She drew her blade and joined in, but it began to flail and soon was back on its feet, whipping its head around and snapping its jaws at each of them in turn. Soon they had developed a rhythm: positioning themselves on opposite sides of the beast, one would strike when it was snapping at the other, and before long the wyvern’s movements were weakening, its reflexes lagging. She felt as if she were in a fugue state, moving purely on instinct, and with each strike the tension drained from her body just a little more. Finally the monster slowed enough for Geralt to bury his sword to the hilt into its heart, and then it fell with a crash that made the ground seem to tremble.

Geralt’s eyes found hers over the carcass as they stood there panting and, running on pure adrenaline, she almost told him everything- how she knew they were strangers but didn’t want to part with him, how she felt that spark, how the last few days with him had been the most fun she’d had in a long, long while.

But then the adrenaline ran out, taking her nerve along with it, and she turned away. The strength drained from her body so suddenly that she had to momentarily brace her sword against the ground like a cane for support, squeezing her eyes shut as she tried to gather herself. _I shouldn’t’ve put so much energy into that Aard,_ she thought irritably. She heard the sound of Geralt’s blade rending flesh as he removed the wyvern’s head from its body, followed by the sound of igniting flames as he cast Igni over the carcass and the nest.

“You alright?” His gravelly voice was near, just a short distance behind her, and she nodded silently before opening her eyes again and making her way back towards Rabbit on shaky legs. Her arm felt like it weighed ten tons as she lifted it to slide her sword back into its scabbard.

She curled her fist into Rabbit’s mane and attempted her usual vault into the saddle, but her arms were too weak, and she slid unsteadily back to the ground. A shiver went through her when she felt Geralt’s hand on her upper arm, his great, looming presence behind her. Her fist tightened around Rabbit’s mane as she realized that this was the first time he’d ever stood so close. She could feel the heat radiating from his body and closed her eyes, breathing in deep to get his scent. He smelled like sweat and adrenaline and leather and the brisk morning air of the forest. It made her feel even weaker, if that was possible.

“Hey,” he said lowly, and she could hear the concern in his voice. “You alright?”

“That Aard just drained me a little,” she murmured, keeping her eyes shuttered. She resisted the urge to let her head fall back against his chest. “Would you mind helping me up?”

She couldn’t help her sharp intake of breath as his hands came to brace around her waist. They were so large that she felt his thumbs on her back and the rest of his fingertips on her stomach, and they seemed to scald her skin even through his gauntlets and her layers of clothing. She felt a sharp jolt below her navel and suddenly wished for some distance between them; the closeness was intoxicating.

“On three,” he said. “One..two..three!” She jumped with what little strength she had and Geralt did the rest, lifting her high enough for her to swing her leg over the saddle. But even when she was settled, he continued to cage her there, with one hand still braced on her waist and the other on Rabbit’s shoulder. She tried to keep her breathing steady under his touch as he peered up at her with his golden eyes. “Look, it’s still early. Thanks to your Aard, we finished that thing off a lot faster than I anticipated. We can collect our reward, and then rest for a bit before moving on.”

She nodded. “I’ll be fine if I can just sleep a little.”

They trotted all the way to Symon’s door this time, and Phoebe remained mounted while Geralt collected the gold. He rode close to her as they moved on to their campsite from the night before, stealing concerned glances at her every once in a while along the way.

“I’m fine, Geralt,” she smiled weakly. “This happens every time I cast a sign that powerful.”

She could tell that didn’t do much to appease him, but he said nothing. He dismounted first when they reached their spot in the woods and moved towards her, hovering at Rabbit’s flank as she dismounted. Her knees gave a great tremble when she hit the ground and she thought for a moment she might fall, but Geralt’s hands immediately wedged under her armpits, steadying her.

“I think I’m good now. Thanks,” she said. She had never craved sleep so much as she did right now; she felt as if her mind would shut down on its own if she didn’t lie down within the next minute. Geralt went back to his saddle and detached his bedroll, rolling it out in the same place by the tree as last night, and she immediately sank down onto it, not even bothering to remove her gloves or boots before flopping down on her back. He settled into a squat beside her, examining her with an inscrutable but serious expression on his face.

“I just need an hour, and then I’ll be back to normal,” she murmured, staring up at him through already-fluttering eyelids.

“Don’t worry about timing,” he growled. “Just rest.”

She didn’t need to be told twice as she curled onto her side and let sleep take her.

~

She was surprised to stir awake on her own, and even more surprised to see that based on the sun’s position in the sky, it was past midday. She turned her head to find Geralt at her side on his knees, chin tucked down to his chest and eyes closed. _He’s meditating,_ she supposed. Gently, she reached out her hand and laid it on top of his. He jolted slightly as he woke, and she quickly withdrew.

“Hey,” she said sleepily. “I said I only needed an hour.”

“Clearly you needed more than that,” he said with a wry smile.

She sat up, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. “But I didn’t want to hold you up. I know you’re in a rush to get to Yennefer.”

“It’s fine, trust me.”

She pushed herself to her feet and neatly rolled his pallet back up.

“Well, I’m fine now. We can ride on.” She held the bedroll out to him, and he stared queerly up at her for a second before reaching out to take it. Then he, too, got to his feet.

Things were feeling tense again, heavy with all the unspoken thoughts and feelings between them, and she felt a sudden wish for this all to just be over-with. For them to just be separated already, even if they never saw each other again, so that she could escape this horrible build-up. Then she could forget the last three days ever happened.

“We’ll still be in Vizima by nightfall if we gallop,” said Geralt as he mounted.

“Lead on.” She still felt slightly shaky as she mounted this time, but managed it without his help.

The sun had just set and they had a few hours of hard riding behind them when they heard the pounding of hooves approaching from some distance ahead. They reined up the horses and looked at each other warily, Geralt drawing his sword while Phoebe pulled her bow out of her quiver and reached back to finger the feathered ends of her arrows with one hand, ready to draw and notch if necessary.

Within seconds a company of riders appeared in the distance, growing larger and larger until they were identifiable as Nilfgaardian guardsmen. She exchanged a glance with Geralt and pinned an arrow between her index and middle fingers, poising to draw as the riders fanned out in a semicircle in front of them and slowed to a halt. Then the two in the middle parted to allow the final rider through to the front.

She would’ve recognized that black and white outfit anywhere, the perfectly coiffed raven hair, the face of legendary beauty. Yennefer of Vengerberg. Phoebe lowered her hand from her quiver.

Yennefer’s hard, violet eyes were moving shrewdly from Geralt to Phoebe and back again as she continued forward, reining her gray gelding up when she was facing the two of them at a distance of a few feet. Phoebe glanced over at Geralt, whose eyes were wide and riveted on the sorceress in front of them, then quickly flitted her eyes back to Yennefer, stifling the pang of jealousy she felt at seeing him immediately so engrossed. She’d known this would happen, and now she would have to endure the situation with dignity so that she could move on and leave this whole mess behind.

“Y-Yen? How?” Geralt’s voice was unguarded and awestruck, a far cry from its usual sarcastic, grumbly self.

“I received a report,” she said smoothly, “about a Witcher who’d appeared in White Orchard. I knew it was you, looking for me. I’d planned to wait until you found me, but that proved to take quite an inordinate amount of time. Now, I see why.” Her eyes moved cooly over Phoebe. “Didn’t expect I’d ever see _you_ again. Least of all here.”

“Likewise, believe me,” Phoebe replied mildly, taking care to ensure that her face remain as unconcerned as possible. The last time they’d encountered one another Phoebe had been young and in a desperate situation, but Yennefer was sorely mistaken if she thought she would be able to ruffle her so easily this time.

The sorceress turned her attention back to Geralt. “It’s… good to see you, Geralt. I’d even embrace you, were you not covered in blood,” she commented in a slightly disparaging tone. Phoebe’s eyes narrowed slightly of their own accord.

“Sorry. Didn’t expect to see you. To be honest, this isn’t at all how I imagined we’d meet.”

Yennefer’s eyebrows raised in mild interest. “How did you imagine it?”

Phoebe was wondering the same thing, but decided she didn’t want to hear the answer. “He didn’t imagine you’d have a Nilfgaardian escort,” she interjected smoothly. “I think you owe us an explanation.”

“And I shall provide it, in Vizima.” Her eyes moved back and forth between them again. “As shall you.” She turned her attention back to Geralt. “Someone awaits you, Geralt- someone who doesn’t like to be kept waiting. Emperor Emhyr var Emreis, or- to those on more intimate terms with him- the White Flame Dancing on the Graves of his Foes.”

“Doubt I number among that group. Far as I remember, the last time we saw each other, he wanted to kill me.”

“Well, now he wants to make you an offer.”

“The kind one can’t refuse?” Phoebe quipped, drawing Yennefer’s violet gaze to her own.

“I didn’t. Though I could have.”

“Must’ve been a damn good offer then,” answered Geralt. “Not many things you’d give up your freedom for. And even fewer people.”

“The sooner we set off, the sooner you’ll find out. How are your horses? Swift?”

“Can’t complain,” Geralt answered. “Why?”

“I’d like to be back behind some thick city walls. As soon as possible.” She turned her horse, and the guard parted further in the middle to allow them to pass through. Then they were off, trotting briskly along the road, the guard behind them. Phoebe tried not to feel bothered when Geralt rode up to fall in next to Yennefer, leaving her to trail behind them. But she was unable to fall back enough to give them total privacy, and thus couldn’t escape their conversation as it floated back to her ears. She heard Geralt’s voice first.

“You know, had a dream about you recently.”

“Knowing you, it was probably filthy,” Yennefer drawled.

“Just the beginning. But then-” he broke off. Phoebe felt an unpleasant twist in her chest, and tried to focus on anything but their voices.

“But then?” Yennefer prompted.

But suddenly Phoebe’s heart grew cold and her stomach sank, because white, puffy flakes of snow had begun to float down around them despite it being the middle of spring, and she knew only too well what that meant.

“Geralt!” she cried, panicked. He immediately twisted around to look at her, registering the snowflakes himself as he went, and their eyes met in alarmed understanding. Yennefer, too, had mirrored his movement, but before any of them could say anything, the deafening pounding of a stampede of hooves shook the ground behind them, to the sides of them- everywhere. Phoebe didn’t need to turn around to know who was closing in on them at this very moment.

“Ride! Now!” Yennefer yelled.

It was one of the very few occasions where Phoebe actually spurred Rabbit with her heels instead of her voice, and he must’ve sensed the urgency of the situation because he immediately surged forward at a breakneck gallop. She looked over her shoulder to see the Wild Hunt Warriors, in their terrifying skeletal armor riding their hulking destriers, slashing the Nilfgaardian guardsmen off their horses one by one as they gained ground. She wanted to blast them with the most powerful Aard she could muster, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to, not after expending so much energy on the one she’d cast this morning. As it was, she was so exhausted that she was barely able to cling to Rabbit as they tore down the dirt road.

So she galloped on, her stomach sinking helplessly as she heard more guardsmen meeting their ends behind her, their armor clattering as they hit the ground. Soon it was only the three of them left standing, Phoebe having pulled into the lead thanks to Rabbit’s size and speed. They thundered over a wooden bridge, the Wild Hunt right on their heels, and Phoebe knew that within another minute they’d be overtaken. But when she looked back she saw Yennefer pelt the bridge with a crackling ball of what looked like lightning, and it exploded into splinters, sending the Wild Hunt plummeting down into the depths below. The three of them rode on, the city of Vizima rising into a jagged silhouette against the night sky.

Phoebe heard Geralt behind her.

“Yennefer, how’d they-”

“We shall talk of this tomorrow, alright? After the audience.”

They didn’t slow their pace until they were at the palace gates, though they had long since stopped hearing the warriors behind them. Phoebe gave Rabbit several grateful pats before handing him off to the stablehands when they dismounted, and Yennefer led them to the palace doors, which were opened by two guards posted outside. The sorceress swept off without a word as soon as they stepped over the threshold, earning her a dismayed look from Geralt as they were divested of their weapons and ushered in the opposite direction by two guards and a matronly woman in a plain but stately dark gown.

For her part, Phoebe kept her eyes front and her mind focused on being as expressionless as possible. She could feel Geralt eyeing her as they were led side by side through several double doors and hallways, but she couldn’t talk to him right now. She had too much running through her mind and weighing on her heart, and she couldn’t wait to be in a private room of her own so she could sort through everything and recenter herself. As it was, she had already shown far too much of herself to the witcher in the short time they’d known each other. She needed to take a step back, and keep herself safe.

After what felt like an age, they entered a narrower hallway, forcing Geralt to walk behind instead of beside her, and their party came to a halt in front of another pair of double doors. The matronly woman turned to look at Phoebe.

“Miss,” she said politely, opening the double doors and beckoning her forward. Phoebe obliged, stepping through the doors without a backward glance, though she could still feel Geralt’s eyes searing into her back.

The room was handsome and spacious, with an enormous four-post bed draped in red and gold, a fireplace taller than she was with a roaring fire blazing in it, comfortable chairs and expensive rugs covering the stone floor, and a large tub in the corner that Phoebe couldn’t wait to sink into. The wall behind the bed was covered floor-to-ceiling by an enormous tapestry depicting a regal coronation scene.

The woman stood near the open door with her hands clasped in front of her while Phoebe moved further into the room and looked around. “Does the lady have any requests before I leave?”

“Yes,” Phoebe said, turning to look at her. “A bath, please, and some wine.”

“As the lady says.” She turned to leave, pulling the door closed behind her and leaving Phoebe to her thoughts at last.

Phoebe dropped her saddlebags next to a chair by the fire and sank down into it, bending over to begin unlacing her boots. When her feet were free at last, she sat back in the chair and stared into the fire, trying to parse through the amalgam of thoughts and feelings roiling inside her. She had known, somewhere, that Geralt would act differently once Yennefer was in the picture. She was the love of his life, after all; songs had been written about them and their tempestuous, legendary romance. But to actually see it and feel it was an experience she’d ended up being woefully unprepared for. She had never experienced jealousy in her life; she’d had no cause to feel jealous with Avallac’h, even regarding Ciri. That situation had just been different; Avallac’h’s feeling’s for Ciri went deeper than just love or infatuation- it was a matter of destiny, a destiny that had begun with Lara Dorren centuries before Phoebe was born and may not be fulfilled for years yet. And besides, Ciri was like a sister to her. She couldn’t imagine any situation that could cause jealousy between them.

So she had been unprepared for that sick twinge in her stomach when she saw the way Geralt looked at Yennefer, the way he had left Phoebe behind without a second thought to ride beside her. She’d been unprepared for the spark of chaos in her chest when she heard Geralt tell Yennefer he’d dreamt of her.

She was brought back from her thoughts when the door opened and several servants marched into the room carrying large buckets of steaming water. Phoebe got to her feet and undid the buckles on her cuirass, tossing it over the back of the chair and following it with her gloves and corset. She removed the leather thong tying the front strands of her hair back and shook out her long tresses as the servant girls dumped the buckets of hot water out into the huge tub one after the other. One of the servants carried a tray holding a crystal pitcher of blood red wine and a glass; Phoebe beckoned her towards the table between the two fireside chairs and the girl set it down before respectfully bowing out of the room. Phoebe poured herself a glass and drank from it gratefully while she waited for the servants to finish, then fished around in one of her saddlebags for her comb and the bottle that held her special blend of moisturizing oils.

Once she was alone in the room again, she stripped out of her remaining clothing, picked up the bar of soap the servants had brought in with the bath, stepped over the lip of the tub, and sank blissfully into the almost-too-hot water. She made quick work of scrubbing her body and washing her hair, then sank back with her head resting on the edge of the tub and closed her eyes.

Alone and able to ruminate on everything for the first time in days, she gave herself a pep talk. Of course she had felt something for Geralt; he was the only the second man to enter her life, and it was only natural for her to feel excitement about something new. Her feelings for him weren’t real; they were just a temporary infatuation, and while it had been fun gallivanting with him the last few days, it was time to refocus her goals. Something grave had befallen Avallac’h, of that she was certain, and she had to find out what it was so that she could help him. So that she could get back to him and remind herself of who her heart truly belonged to.

Yes, she had to help Avallac’h, and she had to go home. Home… the word felt positively foreign to her, as if from another language, so long had it been since she’d had one of her own. She smiled as she imagined the looks on her parents’ faces when they finally saw her after seven years. Would they recognize her? Would she recognize them? Would they look the same, or had the last seven years aged them, grayed their hair and wrinkled their skin? She didn’t care either way, as long as she got to have a family again. As long as she got to feel loved, and held, and content, and _safe_ again.

In the shadow of these monumental affairs that awaited her attention, the situation with Geralt suddenly seemed… insignificant. Tomorrow she would attend the audience with the Emperor and find out what he and Yennefer knew. Then she would say goodbye to Geralt of Rivia, regardless of where he was headed to next. Even if he remained in Temeria, even if they _could_ continue to travel together, Yennefer was with him now. Phoebe’s feelings for Geralt may only be a passing fancy, but she still couldn’t stand the thought of traveling with the two of them.

Her fingers were pruny and the water lukewarm by the time she’d reached a state of relative peace with her thoughts and feelings. With a contented sigh, she stood from the water and stepped out of the tub, grabbing the linen cloth they had left her for drying and wrapping it around her body. Then she picked up her dirty bastian and smallclothes and scrubbed them carefully with soap in the remaining bathwater. Once they were clean, she wrung them out, hung them from the mantelpiece to dry, and fished clean spares out of her saddlebag.

She set her bottle of oil and comb down on the table between the fireside chairs and rubbed a small amount of oil over her legs, arms and torso. Then she pulled on her linen underpants, tying them closed at her waist, and sat in one of the chairs to tend to her dripping and tangled mane. She tipped a slightly larger amount of oil into her cupped palm and worked it through the ends of her hair, following it with her comb. It felt divine to care for herself this way; she’d had so few occasions to do so in the last weeks on the road. When her hair was untangled and smooth, she plaited it loosely down her back and tied it off with her leather thong. Then she donned her fresh matching linen bodice and finally crawled between the sheets on the enormous bed.

Sighing happily, she stuffed herself down under the covers until only the top half of her face was poking out. Almost immediately she felt exhaustion settle on her like a heavy blanket; the day’s events, starting with her taxing use of magic this morning and ending with being chased by the Wild Hunt, had finally caught up with her. She let the fire continue to crackle, enjoying its comforting glow as she curled up on her side under the covers and began to drift.

_She shivered happily under his touch as his fingers raked through her hair over and over. They were back in their chambers in Tir Ná Lia, him in his favorite chair by the fire and her on her knees between his legs, resting her head sweetly against the inside of his thigh by his knee. It was her favorite tradition of theirs, to sit like this each night in silken robes after bathing, and whisper to each other about everything and nothing- about their day, or what they were reading, or how they were feeling. He would caress her hair, her face, her neck, until she either dozed off or began to crave his touch elsewhere. Either way, this was always the last chapter of their day, the chapter just before bed._

I’m dreaming, _she realized as he brushed her hair backwards from her temple, traced her face lightly with his fingertips._ But it’s a good dream. _She leaned into his touch, savoring. “I miss this,” she sighed rapturously. “I miss you.”_

_“But I am here, and this is yours every night, Baeg Aine.” His deep voice seemed to thrum in her chest, and she closed her eyes._

_“No, not anymore,” she murmured. “Now you’re lost, and I have no one to soothe me to sleep.”_

_His fingers stilled on her cheek. “Don’t stop,” she said sleepily. But still his fingers didn’t move, and he said nothing._

_“Avallac’h,” she hummed._

_Silence. And suddenly, his fingers turned ice cold against her skin. She gasped, her eyes popping open as she lifted her head to look at him. “Avallac’h?”_

_He stared down at her but seemed frozen, his hand still hanging in the air where her cheek had just been, his eyes riveted on her but unseeing. She watched, horror-struck, as his skin began to pale, the circles under his eyes growing darker, his blond hair growing dull, his frame thinning, until he looked old and shriveled, barely more than a skeleton. Even his eyes had dimmed from their usual vivid aquamarine to a flat gray-silver. She planted her hands on his thighs, shaking him slightly. “Avallac’h,” she repeated, more forcefully this time, panicked._

_But he was still shriveling, his skin growing tight and sallow around the angles of his face, his long fingers spindly and withered. She grabbed his hands in hers, but as soon as she squeezed them, she felt the bones crumble beneath his skin. “AVALLAC’H,” she screamed, horrified, as she attempted to cradle his face in her hands only to feel his cheekbones crack and cave under her fingers. “NO! NO! AVALLAC’H!” She sobbed helplessly, not daring to touch him, as he stared at her blankly, his deformed cheeks and fingers apparently going unnoticed._

_“Briaris,” he said. But his mouth wasn’t moving, and she wept harder than ever, shaking her head in bewilderment. “Briaris!” She covered her face with her hands, keening._ “Briaris!”

She jerked into wakefulness, her own sobs ringing in her ears and tears wet on her cheeks. She felt like she’d just run a mile; her lungs were screaming for air and she panted desperately, unable to fill them fast enough. Strong, warm hands gripped her bare shoulders, and when she opened her eyes to see that they belonged to Geralt, she remembered where she was.

He was leaning over her with one knee on the bed, his snowy hair loose around his face and shoulders, eyebrows knitted together in concern. He released her as she sat up hazily and cradled her head in her hands, more tears leaking out of her eyes. “Oh, Avallac’h, what’s happened to you,” she groaned on a sob. She felt the bed shift as Geralt sat near her on the edge of it.

“Wanna tell me about it?”

In the depths of her sleep-addled brain she felt a dim niggle of disapproval at how much his deep, gravelly voice soothed her, but she banished it. Right now, she _needed_ to be soothed, nevermind how or by whom.

“It was like he was shriveling before my eyes,” she sniffed. “Like he was shrinking into a skeleton. And when I tried to touch him, his bones crumbled beneath my hands.” She choked back a sob, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes.

“Hey.” She felt his warm hand on the back of her head and tried not to relish it. “Look at me.” She lowered her hands to look at him, properly, for the first time since she’d woken up. He wore just a linen shirt and his breeches, and in the murkiness between sleep and wakefulness, she almost wanted to pinch herself; it seemed somehow unreal, having him sitting on her bed like this in his undershirt. “You don’t know what these dreams mean. Sure, they could signal that he’s in danger or hurt in some way. But they also could just be conjured up by the anxieties you have, not knowing where he is or what’s going on.”

She nodded and sank back into the pillows with a deep breath, eyelids growing heavy again as soon as she rested her head. “How’d you get in here, anyway?” she murmured, looking up at him.

He nodded towards the right side of the tapestry behind her bed, and she craned her neck to see that there was a hidden door punched into it, still ajar from when he rushed in to wake her.

“You should try to get back to sleep.” He made to stand up.

The words tumbled sleepily out of her mouth before she could think. “Stay with me until I’m asleep?”

He looked momentarily taken aback, but shifted up the bed to sit against the headboard nonetheless. She shimmied over to give him more room, then curled onto her side facing away from him. She had no time to second-guess anything before slipping away into the blackness of dreamless sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for anyone living in the US, i hope you've been hanging in there with all the craziness lately. it's been a heavy, stressful, and weird time. it was hard for me to work on this for a little bit there, but getting back to it was a much needed distraction and i hope this chapter will prove to be the same for you. thank you to everyone who left kudos, followed, and commented since my last update. i really appreciate it! would love more feedback as we go along, it really makes my day. xo

_Vizima, Temeria_

_April 1272_

She thought the whole scene with Geralt might’ve been part of the nightmare when she woke to the weak gray light of dawn the next morning. But then she heard his deep, rhythmic breathing behind her, felt the warmth radiating from his body. A pang rippled in her chest when she slowly rolled over to see him laying there on his back, one knee up, an arm slung up behind his head. His bare feet, his loose hair. His face, looking so much younger without the disquiet of wakefulness. It was too intimate, and she resented how warm it made her feel inside. She resented how much she liked it. She suddenly felt it imperative that she get some space.

Today was the day she said goodbye, the day she closed the door on this chapter of her journey, for better or for worse. She needed to find that centered place again, the one she’d found in the bath last night, and she couldn’t do that with Geralt in her bed looking so peaceful. Slowly, she slid out from under the covers and crept over to the chair by the fireplace where she had slung her clothing the night before. She dressed silently, donning her breeches, her bastian, her corset, and her cuirass, then paused to shake her hair out of its plait and twist the front sections behind her head. Finally, she laced up her boots, pulled on her gloves, and slipped out the door.

She made her way back to the stable-side entrance of the palace without too much difficulty, but was apprehended before she could walk out by two guards who stepped forward as she approached the doors.

“Halt,” said the guard on the right. “Where is the lady headed so early?”

“Just for a ride. If you check my chambers you’ll find I’ve taken nothing with me, and you can plainly see that my weapons are still in the palace’s possession.”

He nodded begrudgingly. “The lady must return by midday. They’ll be coming to prepare her for her audience with the Emperor.”

“As you say,” she replied evenly.

The stable was dim and quiet; even many of the horses still slept. As always, it was easy to find Rabbit, who knickered softly at her as she approached to give him a kiss on the muzzle before setting about finding grooming supplies. She was able to find brushes and feed in a small room, and brought Rabbit a bucket of oats to munch on while she groomed him. When his coat and mane were shining, she saddled him up, led him out, and vaulted onto his back. Then they were off.

She rode out of the city at a canter, slowing to a walk once they reached the woods. Letting the reins slip through her fingers, she gave Rabbit his head and let him lead while she retreated into her thoughts. It was time to plan her next move. Logically, she knew it made more sense to find out what happened to Avallac’h _before_ going home. It would be difficult to explain to her parents why she had to leave again if she went home first. But she didn’t think she had the willpower to be given a chance for what she’d wanted more than anything ever since she got her memory back, and _not_ take it. These were dangerous times, and no one was safe. Better to be with her loved ones now, and if something should happen to her afterward, at least she was able to see them again.

So she settled that she would stick to her original plan. She would ride for Trievona, and if she was able to pick up any useful information about Avallac’h and Ciri along the way, then all the better. But regardless, she would reconnect with her parents first, and then resume her search for her friends in full after.

She estimated that if she was going to be readied for the audience at midday, the whole affair should be over and done with well before sundown. She could still get a good length of road behind her by nightfall if she was quick about leaving after all was said and done this afternoon. There would be no time for long goodbyes. She thought of the witcher slumbering placidly in her bed back in the palace, and felt her stomach twist. Somewhere deep down, she had noticed that any time he had been next to her over the last few days, her sleep had been dreamless. She refused to acknowledge the implications of that observation, however. They didn’t fit into the narrative she was creating for herself, the one where Geralt meant nothing to her and continuing on without him was the best thing.

She rode on through the woods until the sun was climbing high before turning back towards Vizima. Now that she’d sorted out her thoughts a bit more, she felt eager to get the rest of the day over with so that she could move on. She knew she was cutting it close as she rode through the palace gates, dismounted, and handed Rabbit off to the stablehand.

She normally would’ve seen to untacking Rabbit herself but instead strode straight into the palace and back to her chamber, where she found several servants filling up the bath, overseen by the same matronly woman from the night before. She noted that the bed was made, the hidden door was closed, and there was no Geralt in sight.

“Apologies,” she smiled at the woman. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

“Not at all, miss,” the woman replied politely. “We’ve come to help the lady bathe and dress for her audience with His Majesty.”

Phoebe pulled off her gloves and sat down in a fireside chair to set about unlacing her boots. “I didn’t get your name yesterday.”

“Colve, miss.”

“Colve,” she repeated as she began unbuckling her cuirass. “Well, let’s get to it, I guess.”

It was a much more hectic bathing experience than the one she’d had the night before. She was scrubbed from head to toe- except for her hair, which was pinned up to keep it dry- by three servant girls until her skin was pink and softer than a baby’s. Once she was out of the bath and dried, she was instructed to stand with her arms out while they moisturized her entire body with her special scented oil. Halfway through this process, Colve directed her attention to the foot of the bed, where three stunning gowns were mounted on dress forms.

“The lady may choose between these three gowns.”

The first was of a rich, deep blue satin, with a boatneck, a fitted bodice, and long bell sleeves. It had light blue embroidered banding at the neckline and sleeves, and a matching girdle belt at the waist sewn into the fabric. The second gown was a simpler but beautifully tailored gown of black velvet, with a bodice tightly laced from the back and a low, wide square neckline embroidered with golden thread. Its sleeves were fitted all the way down, ending in finger loops, and it had no girdle belt, leaving the only embellishment at the neckline and ends of the sleeves. She had never favored black, but she had to admit it was a lovely garment. The last gown was similar to the first, but in plum-colored velvet with pale pink embroidery.

She eyed the blue gown longingly; it had been so many years since she had worn her family’s colors. But it was the most ostentatious of the three, and she didn’t want unnecessary attention drawn to herself. _Better go with the most low-profile option,_ she thought.

“The black one, I think.”

She was the target of disapproving looks from Colve and the servants when she disregarded the traditional Nilfgaardian smallclothes they tried to give her in favor of her own custom ones from Tir Nà Lia, but otherwise stood compliantly and allowed them to dress her. They began with dark stockings that ended just above her knees, then removed the gown from its dress form and held it open for her to step into. She winced slightly as they yanked the laces to their tightest behind her. It was extremely constricting on her abdomen, much tighter than anything she’d ever worn before, but she felt divine in the thick fabric, which was heavy and luscious against her thighs.

She sat in a chair while her hair was swept back from her face, the strands twisted around each other and pinned into an intricate, elegant knot at the back of her neck. When she finally stepped into matching velvet slippers and stood in front of the mirror, she couldn’t help but smile a little. She would never consider herself high-maintenance or vain, but it was nice to feel beautiful once in a while. She hadn’t worn anything other than traveling clothes since Tir Ná Lia, and even there, she’d never worn anything that made her feel so alluring.

Though the gown appeared simple on the dress form, it came to life exquisitely on her body, the neckline so wide that the sleeves crested the very edges of her shoulders, accentuating her collarbones and long neck. The tightness of the bodice combined with the low, square neckline made it so that her normally unassuming breasts were pushed up and separated slightly, and the simplicity of the color and gold accents paired beautifully with her necklace. She had to admit that though black was a color she never wore, it was quite flattering, giving her waist and arms a very svelte profile, making her already prominent eyelashes appear darker, and bringing out her eyes so that they somehow appeared brighter.

Feeling ready to stand before an emperor, she turned to face Colve expectantly. But the woman stood in place, looking as if she were about to say something.

“I have been instructed to ensure that the lady knows how to curtsy,” she said carefully.

Phoebe nodded shortly. “I do.”

“If the lady wouldn’t mind demonstrating, please.”

She fixed Colve with a defiant look before directing her gaze downward and sinking smoothly down until her knee brushed the floor, lifting one arm slightly to avoid resting it on her skirts and positioning the other hand vertically in front of her chest. Then, straight-backed, she rose back into a standing position, lowering her arms gracefully as she went.

She looked Colve in the eye again. “Satisfied?”

Colve inclined her head respectfully and swept towards the door, opening it and standing aside for Phoebe to walk out first. She led Phoebe down several winding hallways and through a beautiful courtyard with many courtiers milling about. Phoebe couldn’t help but notice the stares she was drawing from men and women alike as she passed, and pushed down the sudden surge of self-consciousness that welled up in her chest. She held her head high and kept her gait smooth. _They’re staring because you look beautiful,_ she encouraged herself.

Finally they came to a dimly lit dead-end, where a short flight of stairs led to an unassuming door. Geralt was waiting there already at the foot of the stairs, standing near a dark-haired man with a rather pinched face. Colve stepped back to stand next to the man, leaving Geralt and Phoebe near the bottom-most step, gawking at each other.

Geralt’s eyes had widened as soon as they’d laid on her, and she was sure hers had mirrored the action. He looked unbelievably handsome, clean-shaven and dressed in a chic black doublet of embroidered velvet with embroidered gold trim, black breeches, and elegant black boots. Underneath the doublet he wore a white undershirt, which was visible through the pinked upper sleeves of the doublet and extended down past the lower hem. The white accents made Geralt’s hair shine even brighter than usual, and the gold trim brought out his feline eyes. She found her gaze continuously traveling up and down his form, unable to stop staring.

“Wow,” he said, his voice rough.

“You, too,” she smiled, her face heating. Their eyes had finally locked onto each other, and now seemed very reluctant to lock onto anything else.

“You look-” He scrubbed a hand over his face, giving her a once-over. “You look-”

“Thank you.” She smirked ruefully. “Though I admit that black was never my color.”

His eyes flickered down over her body again, seeming to linger just a little too long over her exposed neck and chest before locking back with hers, and her heart and stomach both seemed to clench at the same time. “If that’s not your color, then I don’t even dare imagine what is.”

She felt her cheeks and neck flush as she tried and failed to resist grinning up at him.

The heavily-accented voice of the pinch-faced man jerked them out of their haze. “The lady and the gentleman make a striking pair,” he commented wryly, moving past them to stand in front of the door.

They both opened their mouths to protest, but he carried on before they got the chance. “The gentleman and lady will address the Emperor only when asked to, and using the appropriate title.”

“Your Archmagnificency?” Geralt interjected snidely.

“I see the gentleman is in the mood for jests. I fear the Emperor might not share his disposition. ‘Your Majesty’ will suffice, spoken loudly, clearly, and with respect.”

Geralt offered Phoebe his arm, and she laid her hand on top of it as was traditional. It had been a long time since she’d had an occasion to practice the etiquette she’d learned in her youth, but she found that it was coming back to her easily as she went along. She felt Geralt’s eyes on her until they reached the top step and the pinch-faced man cleared his throat.

When he opened the door, it revealed a large, modestly furnished room. Four courtiers stood clustered in the middle- three men and one woman- all of whom fell quiet and turned to look as the pinch-faced man walked in ahead of Geralt and Phoebe. The four pairs of eyes seemed to devour them with interest as they stepped over the threshold. The group parted in the middle to reveal a desk, behind which a stony-faced man with shoulder length dark hair sat, eyeing them shrewdly. _So, that’s Ciri’s father._

The pinch-faced man made a loud enunciation in Nilfgaardian that she didn’t understand, but she heard the emperor’s name at the end of it and knew he must be announcing them properly. Phoebe kept her eyes facing front, but she noticed Geralt glancing at her every so often, as if she were a magnet for his eyes. Heat rose to her cheeks again. When the man was done speaking he bowed and stepped to the side, allowing Geralt and Phoebe to step forward.

“ _Bow,”_ she heard him hiss to Geralt. Phoebe released Geralt’s arm and sank into her curtsy, while Geralt performed a truly hideous bow. She couldn’t help but think he’d done it so badly on purpose, and she suppressed a smirk.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” Geralt growled.

The pinch-faced man spoke again, seemingly translating Geralt’s words into Nilfgaardian, but the Emperor waved him off with a few Nilfgaardian words and then the whole room was emptying out save for the three of them.

Geralt offered his arm again and she took it as they took a few more steps forward.

“I thought you bowed before no man,” the Emperor said dryly in the Common Tongue. His voice rang deep and clear.

“Didn’t want to disappoint the chamberlain. We’re friends.”

The Emperor looked far from impressed with Geralt’s flippancy, but he said nothing as he got to his feet and turned his sharp brown eyes on her. “And you are?”

“Briaris, Your Majesty,” she said, enunciating clearly and smoothly. “I’m traveling with Geralt.” She didn’t know much about this man’s character, but she knew that Ciri didn’t trust him. Therefore Phoebe didn’t trust him, and wouldn’t divulge any details about her relationship with his daughter until she knew more.

Emperor Emhyr moved around his desk and further into the room.

“Take it you didn’t summon me to reminisce about the good old days,” said Geralt sardonically. “So-”

“Silence.” He didn’t raise his voice, but Geralt obeyed nonetheless. “My daughter Cirilla. She has returned. And she is in danger.” He turned to gaze up at a portrait of Ciri as a little girl, dressed up in pink and scowling fiercely. Phoebe would’ve laughed if the situation weren’t so serious. As it was, the Emperor had just all but confirmed a major question mark- whether Ciri and Avallac’h had even traveled to this world at all when they went through the portal. “The Wild Hunt pursues her. You will find her and bring her to me.” Phoebe realized that she was gripping Geralt’s arm so tightly that her knuckles were turning white, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “Ciri… left. Went far, far away.”

“Do you believe I’d drag you here in the middle of a war to discuss a rumor?”

“I think anyone can be wrong, even an Emperor.”

The Emperor stepped forward until he and Geralt were less than a foot apart. “I had forgotten how insolent you can be.” He turned away abruptly and moved back towards the portrait. “I haven’t the time to convince you, nor the desire, in fact. Yennefer will do that, after the audience.”

“How many men in your army? Twenty thousand? Thirty? Why me?”

“You know why. Because she trusts you.”

“She trusts _me,_ yes. So tell me why _you’re_ looking for her. I doubt it’s about making up for all those lost years.”

The Emperor moved back around to sit behind his desk once more. “For reasons of state, as always,” he replied evenly. “Enough of this banter. You will agree regardless, if for no other reason then because I shall pay you. More than you customarily receive for a contract. Considerably more.”

“I need information, not motivation. Ciri leaves few tracks. She’ll be hard to find.”

“My corps of spies will help you. Count on them, and my army, should the need arise. Yennefer will tell you the rest. This audience is finished. Mererid!”

The door opened behind them and the chamberlain entered.

“Take them to the sorceress.”

Mererid bowed, and Geralt turned to follow him out without a backward glance. Phoebe curtsied to the Emperor in farewell. “Your Majesty,” she murmured respectfully. Then, she turned and walked through the door behind Geralt, who stood on the other side of the threshold with his arm extended to her again.

Back in the hallway, Mererid was walking fast. “Follow me, if the gentleman and lady please,” he called impatiently. “Please keep close. There are many honorable guests in the palace, whom the gentleman-”

“Disgusts?” Geralt cut in darkly. Phoebe gave him a sharp look.

“-need not bother,” Mererid finished pointedly.

Geralt was looking at her again as they walked; she could perceive his eyes traveling repeatedly over her face and down her body, and she tried hard to stamp down the heat fluttering in her stomach. She was supposed to be saying goodbye, not getting sucked in further. She refused to return his gaze, choosing instead to stare straight ahead, but it didn’t seem to deter him.

“You were quiet in there,” he said lowly.

“I didn’t feel a need to interject at that precise moment.”

“Where’d you learn to curtsy like that?”

“Long story.”

“Guessing it’s the same story behind that necklace. ‘PL’. What are those, your real initials?” She had a feeling he was trying to catch her off guard by letting slip that he knew she was lying about her name, but she didn’t take the bait.

“It doesn’t really matter now, does it?” They were in the courtyard again, garnering many more stares than the first time, and she dimly heard some whispered insults being thrown at Geralt, but it seemed he didn’t notice them at the moment. His eyes were still fixed on her unwaveringly, while she was putting every ounce of effort she could muster into not looking at him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That after today, we’re going our separate ways. My curtsy, my necklace, whatever other questions you’re waiting to ask won’t have any relevance anymore. So it’s a bit late to try and pry for information, don’t you think?” The words were spoken blithely, as if she were talking of the weather, but the truth in them made her inexplicably miserable.

“We don’t know what we’re gonna find out in there. I could be staying here in Temeria for all we know.”

“Even so, I won’t be accompanying you.”

“Why not?”

“I have my own things to accomplish, and traveling with Yennefer of Vengerberg for Melitele knows how long isn’t among them.”

He sighed through his nose, but fell silent as they came to a door on the far side of the courtyard and Mererid turned to address them.

“Once the gentleman and lady are done, they should see me and Colve in their respective chambers to retrieve their possessions.”

Geralt opened the door and they stepped into what appeared to be a suite of vast rooms with bookshelves, tables, and chairs spread across the floors. Immediately to their right a finely dressed man was standing by an enormous hearth, warming his hands over the fire as he dictated to a squire of some sort, who was scribbling madly on a piece of parchment braced over a book.

They passed the two men as they moved through a doorway to their right and came into another very large room, at the far end of which Yennefer was standing with her hands on her hips, watching them approach. Phoebe saw the sorceress’s critical eyes move over her form and then flicker to where her hand still rested on Geralt’s forearm, but if Yennefer was bothered by what she saw, she didn’t show it.

“Geralt,” she said smoothly. “That tunic! You look positively smashing.”

“Ugh, dying to take it off,” he replied. It didn’t go unnoticed by Phoebe that his eyes were very decidedly fixed on Yennefer now, and had been from the moment they stepped over the threshold.

“I’d consider that a proposition under different circumstances, one I might even take you up on.” Phoebe’s stomach seemed to drop a few inches, and she removed her hand from Geralt’s arm, earning her a glance from him that she didn’t return. “But we’ve matters to attend to,” Yennefer continued. She moved across the room and turned back to face them. “Now do you understand why I’m at Emhyr’s court?”

“Mhmm. Seems we’re in the same boat now.” Geralt moved towards Yennefer, but Phoebe remained rooted to the spot. Yennefer raised a questioning eyebrow at the witcher. “Ciri,” he clarified. “She’s really back? No chance he’s mistaken?”

“Look,” Yennefer replied, gesturing towards a piece of parchment on the table nearby. “That’s more or less what she looks like now. Or, so our agents claim. Our little witcher’s grown into a young lady.”

“How bout that,” Geralt murmured. “She’s grown up.”

“It’s been years since you trained together at Kaer Morhen. A great deal has changed.”

“You haven’t,” Geralt replied. “Not a bit.” Phoebe leaned against a nearby table and took a deep breath, imagining what lay ahead for her- hugging her parents again, and being back in Avallac’h’s arms. It lessened the churn in her stomach, but only just.

Yennefer chuckled softly. “I’ve missed those awkward compliments of yours. But let’s focus on Ciri. Alright?” _Finally something we agree on,_ Phoebe thought darkly.

“Right. Emhyr says the Wild Hunt’s after her. I’d find that hard to believe before what happened yesterday, and before everything I’ve learned from Briaris.” He glanced back at her. “How did they track us down?”

“Because of me. You see, I’ve spent months searching for Ciri, using locating spells, haruspicy, geomancy, anything, really. I knew the Wild Hunt might sense it, perhaps even find me, but..” Yennefer glanced down. “I thought I’d tricked them.”

“Well, guess you were wrong.”

“Hmm. I’ve sensed them on my trail, hunting me, for some time. If not for you and Emhyr’s soldiers, they’d’ve gotten what they were after.” She stepped towards Geralt. “I can’t risk another encounter like that. Time to put away the magic, turn to more traditional methods. To the best tracker I know. You must find her, Geralt, before the Wild Hunt does.”

“The Wild Hunt- what could it want from Ciri?”

“I’ve no clue, Geralt. Might’ve written them to ask, but I don’t have their address,” she replied sarcastically. “I know as much as you do. It must be about her blood. Her gift. As for what the Hunt wishes to do with that gift, well- I prefer not to think about it, really.”

Phoebe had been hanging back against her table with her arms crossed, listening quietly, but she did speak up then. Both sets of eyes shot back to look at her. “Tir Ná Lia and all of the Aen Elle will be swallowed by the White Frost soon if something isn’t done. The Wild Hunt believes Ciri is the only one who can defeat the White Frost, and they plan to use her power to do so, by whatever means necessary.”

“And where did _you_ come by such unexpected expertise on the subject, pray tell?” Yennefer asked waspishly.

Phoebe narrowed her eyes as she straightened and approached them, but took care to keep her voice as placid as possible. “I came by it in Tir Ná Lia, when I lived there for three years, and also over the past six months, which I spent hiding with Ciri in another world.”

Yennefer looked stunned into silence by this information, but she recovered quickly. “Then you must have an idea of where she is, and you’re only just joining the conversation now?”

“Do you really think I’d be standing here talking to you if I knew where she was?” she asked coolly. “We got separated. The Wild Hunt found us, Ciri opened a portal to I don’t know where and we all jumped in. I landed in White Orchard, they didn’t. I didn’t even know if Ciri was in this world or not until the Emperor informed us a few moments ago.”

“You said ‘they’. Who else was with you?”

“Avallac’h.”

Yennefer’s face darkened and she opened her mouth to argue, but Geralt cut her off. “So where’s Ciri been seen, exactly?”

Yennefer’s hard stare lingered on Phoebe for a second longer before she shifted her gaze back to Geralt. “In two places. Velen and Novigrad.”

Geralt’s eyes shot to Phoebe, a small spark of excitement gleaming in them. This didn’t go unnoticed by Yennefer, whose eyes narrowed slightly as she continued. “The lead in Velen is the most promising. You should make that your first stop. Ask for a merchant named Hendrik at the Inn at the Crossroads. One of the Emperor’s Agents. He should get in touch with you.”

“That’s it? No passwords? Secret handshakes?”

Yennefer arched an eyebrow. “None. Sorry to spoil your fun, your boyhood fantasies about the crafts of the trade. All we have in Novigrad are unconfirmed reports, rumors. But there you will have the help of our _mutual acquaintance.”_ Phoebe’s brow furrowed as Geralt stared blankly at Yennefer. “Triss Merigold,” Yennefer clarified. “Apparently she’s got a cozy flat on the main square.”

“I’m sure she’ll be delighted to see me,” Geralt deadpanned. “What about you? What will you do?”

“I shall sail for Skellige. There was a magic explosion there recently, it blew half the forest down.” Geralt again met Phoebe’s gaze and held it as Yennefer continued. In her peripheral vision, Phoebe could see Yennefer’s eyes moving back and forth between them. “I believe this had something to do with Ciri. I’ll be in Kaer Trolde. Join me there once you’ve learned something.” Geralt shifted his stare back to Yennefer, who was eyeing Phoebe. “While we appreciate the help you’ve given, you needn’t trouble yourself over this any further. Geralt and I are as good as Ciri’s parents-”

“Yen-” Geralt began in protest, but Yennefer barreled forward.

“-we can handle the search for her on our own.”

Yennefer’s words had the appearance of kindness, letting Phoebe off the hook like searching for Ciri was some chore, but they dripped of condescension and dismissiveness. As if Phoebe was an outsider in the situation, insignificant- as if she was one to be dismissed. She immediately felt her eyes turn to flame as she shifted to face the sorceress fully, a nauseating wave of anger surging up inside her. How dare she, after everything Phoebe and Ciri had been through together? She felt like screaming, like slapping Yennefer across the face. But she had promised herself she would keep an impenetrably cool exterior in dealing with Yennefer this time, so she forced her tone to be deadly calm when she spoke.

“Maybe you raised her for a few years,” she said coolly. “But who was with her during the most harrowing experiences of her life? Who helped her navigate unicorns and elves? Who endured sexual abuse, stole, and murdered with those despicable Rats in Geso, all to avoid leaving her side? Who trained with her every morning and and slept next to her every night? Me.” She was advancing on Yennefer without realizing it, and soon they were almost nose to nose. “I’ve lived with Ciri as her sister and confidante. It’s _me_ who knows who she’s loved, what she fears, where she’s been. So, with respect, Yennefer of Vengerberg, you don’t get to give me permission to look for the _only true friend I’ve ever had.”_

She glanced down at the drawing of Ciri laying on the table. At a glance it looked like her best friend, maybe. But it was missing so much. Her scar, that sharpness in her eyes, the kindness around her mouth. “And by the way,” she added scathingly, gesturing towards the drawing. She felt Geralt’s eyes on her, wide with shock. “She’s _much_ more beautiful than that. They’ve only captured the surface here. But none of the character. None of the stubbornness. None of the kindness. None of _Ciri_.” She turned on her heel and stormed out of the room, leaving stunned silence in her wake. Once out the door she paused, collecting herself and wanting to hear what came next in spite of herself.

After a long quiet, she heard Geralt sigh. “One thing before we go.” A pause. “Why didn’t you contact me? Didn’t need me? Didn’t even want to see me?”

“I didn’t want to spoil things,” Yennefer replied, her voice falsely light. “I’d heard you and Triss made a great couple.”

“Yen… I’d lost my memory.”

Phoebe’s brow furrowed as she listened. Geralt had lost his memory? How?

“Really. That’s your excuse?” Another pause. “Let’s drop it, alright? _‘It’s not what you think’,_ or _‘it helped me understand how much I love you’,_ I don’t wish to hear it. Any of it.”

“Guess this means we need to split up again. Not my preference, but I understand. Clock’s ticking.”

Phoebe shook her head and strode out of the front chamber, unwilling to hear any more. _Of course it isn’t his preference to split with her, stupid,_ she told herself as she blazed through corridor after corridor back to her chamber. _She’s the love of his life. Would you be split from Avallac’h, given the choice?_

She sighed to herself. No, of course she wouldn’t.

The frustration had drained out of her by the time she reached her chamber doors to find Colve waiting outside of them, her arms laden with Phoebe’s weapons.

“I’m to help the lady undress and return her weapons to her,” she said, opening the doors for Phoebe and letting her step in first.

Phoebe glanced out the window and saw that the sun was hanging low in the sky. “Thank you, Colve. In fact, would you mind just unlacing me, and then telling the stablehands to ready my horse? You can leave my weapons here or with the stablehand to give to me when I mount, your choice. But the hour grows late and I have to make haste.” She paused. “And by the way, would you happen to have an extra bedroll lying around somewhere that I could take with me?” _I’ll end up with a broken bone soon if I keep falling out of trees in my sleep,_ she thought darkly. _And it’s not like Geralt will be there to catch me next time._

“Certainly. As the lady says,” she replied politely. Phoebe turned around to give Colve access to her back, and stood patiently while the woman unlaced the tight bodice. She couldn’t help but take a grateful deep breath once it was fully undone; she had felt exquisite in the dress, but after a while it had grown supremely uncomfortable.

“I shall leave the lady to it.”

“Thank you for your help,” Phoebe forced a smile as Colve bowed out of the room.

Once she was alone, she made haste in shedding the gown and pulling on her traveling clothes. She quit fastening her cuirass at the halfway point and didn’t bother with her hair, leaving it in its elegant up-do, which had loosened somewhat over time. She would worry about all that later, when she was far away from here. She paused with her hand on the doorknob, looking back at the black gown that had made her feel so desirable, which lay abandoned at the end of the bed. The other two gowns remained there on their forms as well, and her eyes lingered longingly on the lovely blue one. Before she could second-guess her wickedness, she picked both gowns up and folded them neatly, small enough to fit into her saddlebag if she rearranged things a bit. Then she slipped out of the door and through the winding corridors to the stable entrance as hastily as she could without drawing suspicion.

Colve had elected to leave her weapons with the stablehand, who handed them off to her just as she was finishing up attaching her saddlebags. “Thanks,” she breathed, swinging her back-scabbard behind her and attempting to fasten the buckles as quickly as possible.

“So, you were just gonna leave without saying goodbye?”

She whirled around to find Geralt standing outside Rabbit’s stall with his arms crossed over his chest, looking at her expectantly. He was back in his usual leather and chainmail armor, and behind him Roach stood tacked up and ready to go.

She sighed. “Ideally, yes,” she said lightly, turning her back on him again and finishing up with her back-scabbard before setting about reattaching her spear and silver sword to her saddle. “How did you even get down here and tacked up so fast? You were still talking to Yennefer when I walked out.”

“Had a suspicion you might try and sneak off, so I worked fast. Turns out I was right.”

She buckled the final buckle on her saddle and led Rabbit out past Geralt without a word.

“Thought you didn’t want us to part ways,” he said, leading Roach out behind her. “Now I’m staying in Temeria, traveling west, and Yennefer won’t be here. So why the change of heart?”

She climbed nimbly into the saddle and sighed. “I have my own things to take care of, Geralt. I can’t just go traipsing all over Velen with you.” She urged Rabbit into a brisk walk with a click of her tongue.

Geralt swung lazily up onto Roach’s back, trotting a few steps to catch up to her. “What about Ciri and Avallac’h? Or was that whole speech back there just bullshit?”

“I’m going to keep looking for Ciri and Avallac’h, believe me. But there’s something I have to do first.”

“And what’s that?”

She pursed her lips and kept silent.

“Fine. Is that ‘something you have to do’ to the west?”

“It is.”

“How far west?”

“Pretty much all the way.”

“Then we stick together. Part ways when you get to where you’re going, and I’ll continue on to Velen.”

“Why are you so hell-bent on traveling together, anyway?”

“Same reason you’re so hell-bent on _not_ traveling together, I’d be willing to bet.”

She had nothing to say to _that_ , and several minutes passed in silence while Phoebe stewed. When it really came down to it, she could think of no credible reason why she _shouldn’t_ stick with Geralt. She would still be going straight to her parents, they were both after information about Ciri and Avallac’h, and his company had made everything more enjoyable over the last few days. Not to mention that traveling with a man like Geralt meant less trouble on the road and more ease if it came to a fight. But even aside from all of those legitimate reasons, more importantly the fact remained that she didn’t truly want to part ways with him so soon. She had just been forcing herself to do it out of self-preservation.

“Fine,” she said petulantly. “Stop smirking.”

He held up a hand in a gesture of surrender, and a tentative but peaceful silence settled between them. Phoebe was loathe to admit that her heart was feeling lighter than it had in days.

_~_

“So, you gonna tell me your story now, or are we still playing games?” Geralt looked over at her as they rode along the road west, the setting sun painting everything orange and making her olive-toned skin glow warmly.

The experience of seeing Yennefer had been hard, had dredged up all those same old feelings in him that were always so difficult to suppress. During their meeting he had felt reluctant to part from her, irritated that their reunion had to be so short, and with so much left unresolved.

But now, riding like this with Briaris at his side in comfortable silence, the silhouette of Vizima fading behind them and a long road ahead of them, he was glad for how things had turned out. This exact outcome was what he’d been hoping for all the way up until they had set foot in Yennefer’s room, and with all said and done, he knew he’d gotten what he wanted.

But now it was time to finally get answers- to all the burning questions he’d already had before Vizima, and the ones that had cropped up anew over the past twenty-four hours. He’d finally been able to get a good look at her necklace, for one, and had seen that the engraving on it read _‘PL’._ It had confirmed what he’d already begun to suspect: that Briaris was either her dryad name, or just a fake name altogether. Then there was that curtsy. It was proper and graceful, not your run of the mill peasant’s curtsy and definitely not something she would’ve learned from the dryads. And aside from questions about her identity, he still had unanswered questions about Avallac’h, which had been brought back to the forefront after she’d had yet another nightmare the night before.

She sighed. “What do you want to know?”

“Your real name, to start.”

“Phoebe.”

“Phoebe,” he repeated, trying the name out on his tongue and liking how it felt. It was a name he hadn’t often heard in his lifetime, and it suited her, far better than Briaris did. “That takes care of the ‘P’ on your necklace. What about the ‘L’?”

“Lemmare.”

His brow furrowed slightly. _Lemmare… sounds so familiar, but where have I heard it before?_ “What’s your story? Before becoming a dryad, I mean. Where’d you learn to curtsy like that, and how do you have such a fine piece of jewelry, and personalized at that? Gold and sapphires- both precious materials, and the engraving must’ve been done by a master craftsman. You grow up rich?”

She was silent for a moment before finally answering. “My parents are the Burgrave and Burgravine of Trievona. It’s a small burgraviate, between Gors Velen and Vallweir. I grew up privileged, with all the proper training in etiquette befitting a highborn lady, which included curtsying. As for the necklace, it’s a family tradition; all Lemmare women have one. It’s made for us at birth and worn until death.”

Suddenly it clicked, and his eyebrows shot upwards as he realized where he’d heard the Lemmare name before. “It was you.” She quirked an eyebrow at him in question. “The story was all over the north some years back, about two nobles whose only heir was snatched near Brokilon. I knew the name ‘Lemmare’ sounded familiar- it was your parents. That story was all anyone would talk about for months, a cautionary tale about the ruthlessness of the dryads and how they’d take anyone, even a highborn girl from an old family.”

Phoebe’s eyes were boring into him, her arched brows knitted together. “I didn’t know the story had circulated so widely, but yes. That was me.”

“What were you even doing near Brokilon? Not exactly Trievona’s back yard.”

She turned her gaze front again. “We were on our way to Petrelsteyn, to catch a ship to Skellige. It was supposed to be a family trip, just for fun. My parents had always said that Skellige was one of the most beautiful places in the world, and they wanted me to see it.”

“Petrelsteyn?” Geralt shook his head in confusion. “Why not sail from Gors Velen, or Novigrad?”

“My mother hated sea travel- it made her extremely ill. So, the plan was to travel the bulk of the distance by land, and sail from the most direct point so that we could have the shortest sea voyage possible. Petrelsteyn is practically straight across from Kaer Trolde, so we were going to skirt around Brokilon to get there.”

She paused, her expression darkening as her eyes grew distant. “One night during our journey along the edge of the forest, my parents and I argued. I was arrogant and stubborn, and I thought that what people said about the Forest of Brokilon was just hyperbole. So I spitefully stormed off into it, thinking to give my parents a little scare. You already know the rest of the story.” She scoffed softly, her expression bitter. “I’ve never forgiven myself for being so stupid.”

Geralt shook his head. “You were just a kid.” She sighed, but said nothing. “What was the argument about?”

“Schooling. They’d brought my tutor along, not wanting my studies to get derailed. But it was my first big adventure in life, and I thought that was nonsense. I was too excitable and far from cooperative, and my tutor had asked my parents to give me a stern talking-to.” She shook her head, dropping her eyes to Rabbit’s mane. “That was one of maybe three times in my whole life that my parents and I argued.”

“So that’s where you’re headed now? Back home?”

She nodded. “It’s where I was headed when I met Ciri. My plan was to get Yennefer to restore my memory, and then go home. But fate had other ideas, I guess.”

There was a pause while Geralt brooded over all he’d just learned. He had a newfound appreciation for her tenacity, now having heard her whole story. Despite all, she didn’t wear her hardships on her sleeve like so many others he knew, himself included; there was no bitterness in her that he could see, no cloud of tragedy and darkness hanging around her. Instead she had a lightness, an aura of carelessness about her which was partly what Geralt enjoyed so much about her company.

“Your turn.” Her voice drew him out of his thoughts, and he looked over to see her studying him with an arched eyebrow.

“Knock yourself out,” he shrugged.

“What’s the deal with Yennefer? Why all the tension, and what’s all this with Triss Merigold?”

Geralt sighed. “Yennefer and me… it’s a never-ending story. We have this pull towards each other that’s damn near impossible to resist, but every time we try to be together, it’s only a matter of time before we implode.” He realized it’d been a long time since he’d spoken openly with someone about Yennefer, and it felt good.

“Why? I thought you were supposed to be each other’s _‘destiny’._ ” The sentence was spoken with a marked sarcastic undertone, and Geralt quirked an eyebrow.

“Yeah? Where’d you hear that?”

She shrugged. “It’s what all the songs say.”

“Ah. Right. The songs.” He paused, unsure of how to explain without too much unwanted detail. “We’re just… destructive for each other. We’ll be happy for a little while, but then the same old shit comes back to destroy us time and time again.”

“What same old shit?”

He glanced at her, disbelieving that she would ever want to hear this, but she only raised her eyebrows expectantly. _Well, you asked for it,_ he thought _._ “Never trusting me, reading my thoughts constantly without asking first, trying to control me. Always having her own agenda in whatever she does and never letting me in on her plans until afterwards. Then I get frustrated and act out, or leave, which only causes her to double down on not trusting me and makes everything harder the next time around. So as you can see, the whole ‘destiny’ thing isn’t so cut-and-dry.”

“You mean, you don’t believe she’s your destiny? Or you don’t believe in destiny at all?” Phoebe’s eyebrows were raised, her expression thoughtful.

“If you’ve heard the songs, you know about how Yen and I met, the whole story with the djinn and how my wish bound us together forever.” She nodded. “Well, that’s mostly been the basis of everyone throwing the word ‘destiny’ around. Sometimes I do believe it- I mean, we’ve been doing this for twenty years now, and we keep coming back. But this thing between us, it’s so dark. Can’t help but wonder if something that hurtful can be a destiny.”

“Hmm.” She was staring straight ahead, her expression impassive but still pensive.

“Take it you don’t subscribe to the whole destiny bit.”

“No, I would say I believe in destiny. I just don’t necessarily think everyone has one, and I think something can look like destiny when it’s not.”

“And you think that’s the case with me and Yen?”

“No idea, but everything you just said tells me that _you_ might.”

He frowned at that, feeling a niggle of discomfort at the truth in it. It was time to change the subject. “What about you and Avallac’h? Is it _destiny_?” There was an unintentional mocking note in his voice, but she was unruffled.

“No.”

He raised his eyebrows, admittedly stunned by such a straightforward answer. “You seem pretty certain about that.”

“I am.”

“Thought you said you loved him. Seems to be true enough, based on how you scream for him every night.”

She raised her eyebrows at him, an expression of mild amusement on her face. “I do love him.”

“So how can you be so sure he’s not your destiny?”

“Avallac’h can’t be my destiny, because I’m not his.” There was no sadness in her voice as she said this, only matter-of-fact simplicity, as if she were saying ‘I have a backache’ or ‘I don’t like onions’.

“Then who is?”

“I don’t think you want to hear the answer to that.”

Geralt’s stomach twisted in anger and revulsion as he realized what she was saying. “You can’t be serious,” he growled.

She looked at him placidly. “I am.”

“How can you say that? Hell, how can _you_ even love him, after what he did to Ciri when you first landed in that place?” His composure had slipped, and with it the question he’d been wanting to ask most of all- how _could_ she love someone like Avallac’h?

The neutrality in her face faltered. “What Avallac’h put us through when we first met him was reprehensible, and took a long time for me to move past. Ciri as well, I’d venture to say. But Avallac’h loves Ciri- that much I know for certain. He will go to the ends of the earth to ensure her safety, and he quite literally has.”

“Loves her, huh?” Geralt shot back derisively. “And, what, he’s _‘training’_ her out of the kindness of his heart, because he loves her? Or because he wants to use her power, just like everyone else?”

She actually reined Rabbit up short, turning to look him square in the eye. “Geralt, what I’m about to say is extremely important.” He met her gaze and held it to show he was listening. “This is the cold, hard truth. The Aen Elle _need_ Ciri’s help. Without it, they’ll be entirely wiped out by the White Frost, and other worlds will follow, including ours. Avallac’h and the Wild Hunt are both after the same goal- saving their world.” Geralt scoffed and shook his head, opening his mouth to retort, but she cut him off, her voice raising slightly in volume. “The difference is that Avallac’h refuses to force Ciri. He wants her to decide to do it on her own, and if she does decide to do it, he wants to ensure that she’ll be strong enough to survive the process. Until then, he’s helping her get stronger and keeping her safe. He’s abandoned his home, made himself an enemy to the Wild Hunt, people he once called friends, and put himself in grave danger to do what he’s doing. So, yes, I would say with abject certainty that he loves her.”

Geralt looked away, scowling, and they resumed walking. It was all very hard to swallow- not only what Avallac’h did before, but also the apparent hundred eighty degree change from that to Ciri being his ‘destiny’. He didn’t necessarily disbelieve what Phoebe was saying- for all he knew, maybe the elf _did_ love Ciri. But Avallac’h being her _destiny?_ He wasn’t ready to believe that, and he didn’t know if he ever would be.

“Why even be with Avallac’h if you know he loves someone else?” He’d managed to calm his voice, but the words still came out almost as a growl.

She sighed. “What Avallac’h feels for Ciri is rooted in centuries of history, going back to when he first fell in love with Lara Dorren. It’s deep, and enduring, and just a part of him that will never go away. But it could be years- decades, even- before Ciri will be ready to return that love.” She paused, meeting his eyes, and he understood from her expression that though she was speaking about it cavalierly now, this was a situation that had caused her great pain.

Her voice was a bit weaker when she spoke again. “It was hard to make peace with it, but Avallac’h and I have come to understand each other. We both know the day will come where we go our separate ways and never return to the way we were. But until then, I’ve loved him, and he’s loved me, too, in his way.”

They fell into a contemplative silence, and before long the sun sank below the horizon and darkness reigned. Geralt cleared his throat. “We should find a spot, make camp.”

“Right.”

They veered the horses into the forest and picked through the trees until they found a reasonably flat and isolated area where they could build a fire. Geralt gathered wood while Phoebe tended to the horses, and soon they were sitting quietly by the fire, eating a rather paltry meal consisting of dried fruit, nuts, and cured meat.

As he chewed, his eyes wandered over to his companion, who was staring into the fire seemingly lost in thought. He let his gaze linger while she was distracted, noticing for the first time that her appearance was nowhere near as immaculate as usual, but rather playfully disheveled. Her cuirass was buckled only to about halfway, revealing her necklace, her bastian, and a sliver of skin underneath. Her hair, still pinned back in its elaborate knot from earlier, had unraveled somewhat over the course of their travels today, leaving loose strands to curl lazily about her face and neck.

As his eyes lingered on that neck, he couldn’t help but think back to earlier that day, before the audience, when he’d laid eyes on her in that gown for the first time. If he had already thought her beautiful before, he had been rendered completely speechless by the sight of her then. The cut of the gown had accentuated her lithe frame, and the black had made her eyes seem to glow softly. The openness of the neckline, combined with having her hair pulled back, had drawn attention to her long, slender neck- a feature normally hidden by her cascade of locks. Geralt had never known how titillating the sight of someone’s neck and clavicle could be until that moment. He was sure she had noticed that he couldn’t keep his eyes off her, but he found he didn’t care.

It was true that he’d never been known for his fortitude in the face of a beautiful woman. But this felt different. The fact was, every interaction he’d had with her over the last few days- fighting together, her tending to his wounds, the way she defended him, soothing her after her nightmares, that unbelievable Aard, sleeping better than he had in months next to her in her bed, the sight of her in that dress- had fed into that electric feeling he’d had behind his navel ever since he’d first laid eyes on her. That same feeling responsible for the spark of panic in his chest at the thought of her leaving without saying goodbye earlier- at the thought of her leaving at all.

That same feeling that made it so that every time she met his eyes, he felt like invisible hands were wrapping around his stomach and _twisting_.

Her eyes found him staring as she tilted her head back to drink from her water skin, and he quickly averted his gaze when he saw the amused quirk at the corners of her mouth. He had largely managed to disregard his hangups over her age at this point- they clearly made no difference to his body, and she was still an adult, after all- but something still felt slightly wrong about letting her catch him ogling her so openly.

“So, shall we spar tomorrow morning before setting off?”

“You don’t think we oughta get some training swords first?” he replied wryly.

She waved him off. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Geralt scoffed. “The fun of not being worried I’m gonna accidentally kill you.”

“You know, you’re not nearly as devil-may-care as I would’ve expected a witcher to be,” she teased.

“One of us has to be responsible.” He raised his eyebrows at her. “And it’s clearly not gonna be you.”

She laughed lightly and began pulling the pins out of her hair one at a time. “I’m plenty responsible, I’ll have you know. I just trust in the fact that you don’t want to kill me.” He watched as she shook her hair out with one hand, letting it fall loose around her shoulders in voluminous waves. “You should do me the same courtesy.”

“Accidents happen, courtesy or not.”

“Fine,” she sighed theatrically, leaning back on her hands. “The next place we can get training swords, go for it. But until then, we spar my way.”

“Seems fair enough,” Geralt assented begrudgingly.

When it was time to bed down, he was surprised when she went to her saddle and detached a bedroll of her own. “Where’d that come from?”

She unrolled it a short distance away from his own. “I asked Colve for it before leaving Vizima, since it’s clearly not safe for me to sleep in trees anymore.” She sank down onto it and began unlacing her boots. “Plus, I thought I was going to be by myself- no Geralt of Rivia to catch me if I fell,” she added with a wry smile.

Geralt set about pulling off his own boots while she removed her cuirass and corset and laid them neatly next to her bedroll. “Guess you were wrong about that.”

She offered him a small smile as she shuffled under her fur pelts. “Yeah. Guess I was.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trying to get back to a weekly post, we'll see how that goes. we're back to the 'present' in this chapter for the first time in a while! hope you all enjoy, drop a comment and let me know your thoughts. :)

_Burgraviate of Trievona, Temeria_

_November 1276_

Only the very weakest rays of the rising sun have appeared over the horizon when he wakes. He stares up at the shadowy red canopy looming over him and takes a deep breath, lifting a hand to rub the tiredness out of his eyes. Truth be told, he didn’t sleep well, despite the enormous bed and the luxury of his new living arrangement. He feels too worked up inside, knowing that Phoebe is somewhere inside this castle right at this moment, and that within the hour he’ll be with her, hunting a monster, for the first time in years.

He mentally braces himself for the difficult conversation he knows will come sooner or later today, about why he’s here. He knows he has to be prepared for rejection, dismissal, anger, perhaps even violence- though the latter would be very unlike Phoebe- and he hopes beyond hope that come nightfall, he’ll be back in this very bed, and not sleeping on the hard ground in the woods somewhere. After spending a few moments organizing his thoughts, he peels back the covers, climbs out of bed, stretches deeply, and begins to don his armor.

He isn’t surprised to find Phoebe fully dressed and tacking Rabbit up already when he enters the stable. He pauses in the doorway to watch her for a moment; after only seeing her in his memory and his dreams for three years, it feels surreal to be in the same room as her, in the flesh. He wonders fleetingly if the whole last twenty-four hours have been a dream, but no, she’s here alright, cooing softly in Rabbit’s ear as she fastens the buckles on his bridle. She’s wearing the same blue leather and white wolf as yesterday, and Geralt can’t help but think what a sight they must make, him in his own blue Cat School armor.

He finally steps inside and clears his throat as he makes his way to Roach’s stall, and she turns to look at him, inclining her head in greeting. “Good morning.” She picks up her back-scabbard and attaches her silver sword to it.

“Morning.” He gestures towards Rabbit as he slips into Roach’s stall and sets about getting her ready. “Glad to see you still have him.”

“I don’t like to imagine the day I won’t,” she replies neutrally, slinging her scabbard over her head and fastening the straps across her chest.

They continue their preparations in tense silence, and in no time, the horses are fully geared up and they’re hoisting themselves into the saddle before filing out of the stable. They set off across the courtyard, breaking into a trot once they’re through the gate.

He wants to jump right into asking her what she’s been doing these last few years, but he figures it’s better to start with something more neutral. “So, this griffin. What’s the story?”

“It’s made its nest just beyond the edge of the eastern farmland. Killed two of the farmers there a few days ago, and now, understandably, no one will go near that land. The final harvest is happening right now, so it’s a situation that needs to be dealt with otherwise those mens’ families won’t have what they need to get through winter.”

“Examine the site already?”

She nods. “That’s what I was doing yesterday. Looks to be just one griffin based on what I saw of the nest and what the witnesses have told me, but I can’t be sure.”

“Would be more than just two victims if there were multiple griffins, in my experience,” he offers.

“Hmm.”

There’s a pause as they ride through the barely-stirring village and then veer left to take the road east. He glances over at her once they’re alone on the road again. “So, how’ve you been?”

“Good,” she says breezily. “Busy, and I don’t get much time to myself, but good.”

“You’ve really turned this place around, by the looks of things. Your subjects seem happy.”

“Well, I would hope so, for all I do for them,” she quips.

“Must be exhausting.”

“It is,” she concedes. “But things usually quiet down during winter. Looking forward to that.” She looks over at him with polite interest. “And you? You’ve been on the Path all this time?”

“Yep. Had a couple adventures right after the war, but just the usual work for the last year and a half or so. Get to team up with Ciri once in a while when the stars align, but mostly just doing the grind on my own.” They’ve reached the farmlands and are now trotting between vast golden fields of grain, rippling in the cold breeze.

“I thought you would’ve settled down with Triss or Yennefer by now,” she comments nonchalantly. “I was honestly surprised when I heard you hadn’t.”

_Couldn’t really settle down with either of them when all I could think about was you,_ he thinks darkly. “Haven’t seen either of them since the war ended. Triss moved to Kovir and Yen went north.”

“I know,” she says, turning her gaze front again. “Triss writes, and Yennefer’s come here to see Ciri a couple of times over the years.”

“Bet you loved that.”

She shrugs. “I’ve been too busy to interact with her much when she’s shown up.”

“Hmm. What about you? You see Avallac’h much?” He tries not to sound too curious.

“Once in a while. He usually comes in the winter when Ciri’s here.”

Geralt wants to know more about that, but before he can find a tactful way to ask, she’s soothing Rabbit to a halt and dismounting lightly. He follows suit. They’re just short of the fields’ edge, and he sees a hill up ahead crowned with a dark mass of branches that can only be the griffin’s nest.

For a moment he seems to forget all the time that’s passed, falling instantly back into old routines from the dozens of contracts they did together before. “Approach from opposite directions?” he mutters, stepping closer to her as he draws his hybrid-oiled silver sword.

She nods. “I’m hoping it’s still asleep,” she murmurs. “If we’re quiet enough, we can sneak up on it and maybe this can be over with before it can even get up.”

But no such luck. They part ways and are only halfway up the opposite sides of the hill when they hear the griffin’s screech, then see it rise into the air and begin to circle. It doesn’t matter, though- the griffin would barely be a match for Phoebe by herself, let alone the two of them together.

Geralt doesn’t even need to look at Phoebe to know what’s coming next. She immediately brings it down with an Aard- not anywhere near the strongest he’s seen her do, but enough to knock the wind out of the beast and paralyze it for a few seconds when it hits the ground. Geralt seizes the opportunity to jump in and slash at the griffin’s head and neck. It tries to get to its feet but Phoebe immediately catapults it with another Aard, then joins him in hacking at its other side with her sword, its blood spattering back in all directions in the massacre. One more cycle of this and the griffin is lying dead at their feet.

Phoebe straightens and slides her sword back into its scabbard, her face speckled with blood, her amber eyes glowing softly the way they always do when she uses magic. Geralt sheathes his own sword and casts an Igni at the griffin’s nest, engulfing it in flame.

“Just like old times.” He turns to face her, and sees a flicker of something in her eyes before they turn inscrutable once more.

“I certainly hope not,” she replies mildly, turning to move briskly back down the hill to the horses. Geralt feels an unpleasant stab of guilt as he follows, watching her long dark curls bounce down her back with every step. This is it- his opening to address all that’s left unsaid between them, and explain why he’s here. He ponders the right words as they hoist themselves into the saddle and walk back the way they came between the golden fields, but before he can say anything, she changes course into the field to their left and breaks into a canter. Geralt follows curiously, and they’ve soon come to a modest but well-kept and cheerful hut, painted white with Lemmare blue trim, at the edge of the field. Phoebe dismounts and knocks on the door while he hangs back, watching with interest.

The door opens to reveal a very pregnant young woman with dark hair and puffy, red eyes. _The farmer’s widow?_ Geralt wonders. “Your Ladyship,” she exclaims, sinking awestruck into an unsteady but deep curtsy at the likely unexpected sight of the blood-flecked Burgravine on her doorstep, but Phoebe stops her halfway down with a hand under her elbow.

“Please, Amandine, don’t risk injuring yourself on my account,” she says briskly, helping the woman upright. “The griffin is taken care of. I know it’s little consolation after losing your beloved Matthias, but you’ll be safe now, and your harvest is salvageable. I’ll be sending a young man from the village to collect the grain for you, and he’ll assist you with anything else you need a man for this winter. If you need my help with anything, please don’t hesitate to send a messenger.”

Amandine bows her head, her eyes filling with tears. “Thank you, My Lady. If this little one be a daughter, I shall call her Phoebe, and pray she lives up to the name.”

“And if you’re given a son?” She quirks an amused eyebrow. “‘Phoebe’ isn’t easily converted into a boy’s name, I’m afraid.”

“Then he’ll be Remyle, after your late and great father, My Lady.”

Phoebe smiles warmly. “You honor me, Amandine. Please, send word to the castle of when you’ll lay Matthias to rest. I shall come pay my respects.”

“Please, My Lady, won’t you do me the honor of breaking your fast at my table?”

“Nothing would please me more, but it’ll have to be some other time. I must go on and give the news to Manon,” she defers kindly. “Be well.”

“Melitele bless you, Your Ladyship.”

Geralt feels a strange mixture of pride and regret ballooning in his chest as Phoebe vaults back into the saddle and they ride on to the next hut over, where a similar scene unfolds, though the peasant named Manon is not pregnant and insists on harvesting her grain by herself. He feels pride, because Phoebe has really come into her own since he met her, from the lost, scared girl he found years ago to this perfect intersection of kindness, charisma, and power. And he feels regret, because _he,_ disenchanted killing machine that he is, could’ve had the privilege of being with her, watching her grow through that whole journey, if he’d only taken what she was offering him for its great worth when it counted.

When he and Phoebe are finally back on the road alone again, Geralt lets a few moments pass quietly before clearing his throat.

“Listen,” he begins, turning to catch her eye, but her gaze is fixed unwaveringly forward. “I owe you an apology, a really belated one, for everything I let come between us years ago, and especially for the last time we saw each other.” He pauses, but she continues to stare silently ahead, so he ploughs on. “Never had any intention of hurting you, and I wish I could take it all back. I’m here because I wanna fix it, in whatever way you’ll let me. Said it yesterday- I’m not just passing through. Plan to stay here through winter- beyond, even- if you’ll have me.” There’s so much more to say, so much more inside him that she needs to hear, but he finds he can’t force it out.

There’s a long silence, and she still doesn’t look at him when she finally speaks. “There’s no fixing what’s dead and gone.” His heart drops into his stomach. “But if staying is what you wish, I won’t stop you. I don’t think Ciri would ever forgive me if I did.”

_‘Dead and gone’…_

He tries not to feel too hurt. What did he expect? That all it would take would be a few apologetic words for them to embrace and be as they were? No, it’ll take work to have that privilege again, and he knew that going into this.

“I appreciate it.” He casts around for a change of subject as they pass through the village. “So, what else is on your schedule for today?”

“A bath, to start with. Then it’s back to the village to begin taking stock of this year’s harvest.”

“That something most burgravines do themselves?” He’s sure he already knows the answer.

She shrugs. “I’m so far removed from my upbringing as a noble that I really have no idea what’s considered normal for a burgravine to do or not do. I just try to do what feels right.”

“Probably why you’re so good at this.”

She arches an eyebrow and offers him a small, amused smile, the first he’s gotten since his arrival yesterday. It’s not warm; in fact, her eyes are still cool and impassive as granite, but it’s something. “First a heartfelt apology, and now blatant flattery. You must _really_ feel guilty,” she chaffs.

He can’t help but smirk a little. He’s missed that dry wit over the years. “You’re right, I do. But it’s not flattery. Been around a lot of nobles over the years. Never met a single one who handled monster problems directly, knew villagers by name, _or_ took on tedious duties like tallying harvests themselves, never mind doing all three in one day.” He thinks back on the doubts she’d had when they were still traveling together, about whether she’d make a good ruler or not. He’d always told her she would be among the best of them. He’s glad to have been proven right.

“Well, thank you for your non-flattery, then.”

He clears his throat. “So, the stock-taking this afternoon. Got anyone helping you?”

“Babette and Erik. But I suppose there’s about to be one more, right?”

~

Phoebe’s fingertips have gone pruny by the time she finally decides it’s time to get on with it, so long has she stewed in the bath water, delaying the inevitable.

Delaying seeing _him_ again.

The truth is, Geralt was right- it _was_ just like old times this morning, and she resents that. She resents it so much, in fact, that she’s spent the better part of the last hour brooding in this very bathtub, anger at her own weakness bubbling under her skin and turning her mood dark and turbulent.

She was weak in the beginning, for the first year or so, waiting for him to come back just as he did yesterday. She filled her head with imagined scenarios: him begging on his knees for her forgiveness, him coming for her only to find that she was married and happier than ever without him, him sweeping her off her feet and giving her everything she’d craved so badly but never gotten. It had been a sickness of simultaneous yearning and hatred, and it had nearly torn her apart completely.

So she’s angry, because it’s taken a lot for her to feel like she’s finally over Geralt. Time, effort, pain beyond belief. Pouring every ounce of herself into fixing her people, into rebuilding her family’s legacy. Throwing herself into her work from the first rays of morning sun till her eyes can’t stay open anymore in the deep dark hours of the night, exhausting herself to the point where for those few fleeting hours of sleep, she doesn’t even dream.

Making herself strong, reprogramming herself to never need to fall in love again. She’s the truest and most constant ally she’s ever had, after all. She doesn’t allow herself the time to think, to reminisce, to mourn. She barely allows herself time to smile, save for when Ciri’s around.

She _liked_ the girl she was, before all this- the girl who liked to flirt, who never took anything too seriously, who viewed the whole world through the lens of a joke, no matter what horrors befell her.

But she’s not the girl she used to be. She had to _kill_ that girl to survive, and has been mourning her ever since, all thanks to Geralt of fucking Rivia.

And now that she’s finally, _finally_ gotten a grip, he shows up here, with his gravelly voice, his crisp, rugged scent, his genuine-but-still-not-good-enough apology, in true Geralt fashion. Everything she’s put herself through over the last three years has been in preparation for this moment, to give her the fortitude to tell him to fuck off before he could even step over the threshold. And yet, when her moment came, she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

_You weak fucking idiot._

Even while being cold and distant, even in the limited interactions they’ve had so far, she’s felt some part of herself slipping, wanting to forgive, to have her partner back, to feel close to him again.

_Weak. Fucking. Idiot._

Her thoughts are broken by a knock at the door.

“Everything alright, My Lady?” comes Babette’s muffled voice.

“Yes, fine. I’ll be down soon.”

She rises out of the lukewarm water and dries herself off, taking several deep breaths to center herself. Witcher or no witcher, she’s still Phoebe Lemmare, damn it, and she won’t be cowed. She won’t let him see her crack.

She moisturizes her skin with oil, pulls on clean smallclothes, and opens the enormous wooden chest at the foot of her bed. Her blue leather and white pelt are with Babette for cleaning after being sprayed with blood this morning, so she instead chooses a chic doublet and matching breeches in deep green velvet, with her usual lace-up boots in leather dyed to match. After fixing her hair and attaching a red wolf pelt to her shoulders, she reluctantly emerges from the solitude of her chambers and descends the stairs to find Geralt, Babette, and Erik all ready and waiting for her in the main hall.

Geralt has changed as well, trading in his admittedly dashing Feline armor for a simple brown suede brigandine with matching trousers and boots. His eyes travel up and down her body as she approaches, and her stomach gives a terribly familiar lurch.

“Horses ready?” she asks, more brusquely than she intends to.

“Aye, m’lady, Wilelm has ‘em saddled and waitin’ out front,” Erik replies.

“Excellent.”

When they arrive at the village, the main square is bustling with farmers waiting to show their harvest and have it tallied. They rein up the horses in the center of the square. “We’ll spread out like usual,” Phoebe says. She glances towards Babette. “Before you get started, Babette, I’d like you to find Jaspre and bring him to me.”

“Jaspre?” Babette gives her a questioning look.

“He’s to spend the winter with Amandine.”

Her eyes widen uncertainly. “But- My Lady-”

“No questions right now, Babette. Just fetch him.”

“Yes, My Lady.”

Erik and Babette disperse after they dismount and tether the horses, but Geralt remains at her elbow, and she tries to stamp down the simultaneous annoyance and excitement bubbling in her stomach.

“What was that about? Who’s Jaspre?”

Phoebe reaches into her saddlebag for the parchment, wooden planchette, and quill Erik stowed there for her. “A young man in town. Babette clearly doesn’t approve of my decision to place him with Amandine this winter.”

“Why’s that?”

“He lost his parents to flu last year and we’ve had some problems with him since. Petty theft, terrorizing younger children, insolent and sometimes violent towards his Aunt, who’s taking care of him now.” They start towards the nearest farmer, who is standing next to a cart filled with bags of grain. “His family is among the oldest and most loyal in the village, so I’ve always had a soft spot for him. I’m hoping that placing him with Amandine this winter will bring him around. Give him a sense of family and belonging again.”

“That’s big of you, but placing a kid who’s known to be violent with a newly widowed pregnant woman? Seems risky.”

“He’s only fourteen. He’s not a monster,” she replies, irritation coloring her voice slightly. “He needs help. Punishing him hasn’t worked. Maybe this will.”

They’ve just finished tallying the cart of grain when Phoebe spots Babette making her way through the crowd with a wiry dark-haired boy in tow.

“Thank you, Babette,” she says, and Babette melts back into the bustling courtyard after an obliging curtsy. Jaspre’s eyes are fixed on the worn toes of his boots, his overgrown dark hair shielding his face from view. Phoebe can feel Geralt at her back, watching carefully.

“M’lady,” Jaspre mumbles, his eyes flitting up past her shoulder towards Geralt before hastily lowering again. He shifts slightly from foot to foot.

“Jaspre. How are you?”

“‘Malright.”

“And the trouble with your aunt?”

“She nags too much.” He still hasn’t met her gaze, and she realizes it’s Geralt’s presence that’s making him clam up like this. She sighs and decides it’s best to just get on with it.

“I have a very important task to assign to you this winter. Are you willing to help me?”

He finally looks up then, ice-blue eyes wide. “Of course, m’lady.”

“Amandine will give birth any time now, and as you know, her husband has been taken from us. I’d like you to help her with her harvest, and stay with her through the winter to assist with anything else she needs.”

His eyes are on his shoes again, and he says nothing.

“What’s wrong?”

“ _She_ put you up to this, didn’ she?” he asks bitterly.

She steps forward and braces a gloved hand on the back of his neck. “Jaspre.” He continues to stare sullenly at the ground, his mouth turned down slightly. “Jaspre, look at me.”

She waits for him to comply before continuing. “I haven’t even spoken with your aunt about it yet. This is not a punishment or a rejection. I could’ve chosen any young man in the village, but I’m choosing you. Do you know why?”

“No, m’lady.”

“Because I trust you, and I believe in you. This is your chance to turn things around, and prove to everyone that you’re the young man I know you can be. Hmm?”

He hesitates, then nods firmly.

“No lashing out. No insolence or tom-foolery of any kind. You do as you’re told, and if you have a problem, if you get angry, you don’t hurt anyone- you come straight to the castle and see me instead. I’ll tell Babette and Erik to let you in anytime. We’ll talk. Agreed?”

He nods again. “Yes, m’lady.”

She shakes him slightly. “Don’t let me down.”

He looks a bit more like himself, finally. “I won’t, m’lady, I promise.”

“Off you go.”

He backs away into the milling crowd as soon as she releases him, and Geralt steps forward.

“Get a bad feeling about that kid. Seems shifty.”

“Well, fortunately for him, he’s my subject and not yours.” Geralt seems to take the hint, because he holds his hands up in surrender and that’s the last he speaks of it.

The tallying of the harvest is made only slightly less tedious than usual by the distraction of Geralt’s presence, and by the time it’s over, Phoebe is so grateful to be climbing onto Rabbit’s back and riding for the castle that she manages to forget all about her earlier bad mood. Her mouth is watering at the thought of sitting at the table for a hot meal and some wine.

Once they’re back in the castle, she makes a beeline for the second floor solar, unbuttoning her doublet and tossing it to the side along with her gloves before pouring herself a glass of sweet Ofieri wine. It feels so good to have this day behind her that she doesn’t even care that Geralt has followed her into the room, and she pours him a glass as well.

“Round of Gwent, while we wait for dinner?” she asks lightly, while he sheds his gloves and lays them on the table next to hers, following them with his weapons.

“You’re in a good mood all of a sudden.” He makes his way towards her and takes the offered wine.

“That was the last tedious work I’ll have to do until spring, so I feel like celebrating.” She raises her glass and he clinks his against it. She turns towards the card table as she drinks, and sinks down into one of the chairs while Geralt takes the seat opposite. There’s a moment of silence while they choose their cards.

“Haven’t played Gwent in a while,” he comments.

“Lucky for me. I might actually win this time,” she quips, sipping her wine in between draws from her deck.

A pause, where only the shuffling of the cards is heard. When both of their decks are chosen, she lays the first card.

“Seen Ciri recently?” she asks casually, refilling her glass.

Geralt examines his hand and chooses a counter-move. “Few days back, in Novigrad. I’d guess she’ll show up here any time now.”

“Hmm. She’ll be over the moon to see _you_ here.” She slaps another card lightly onto the table and takes a sip of wine. “What kind of contracts are you taking these days? Things must’ve quieted down with the war being over.”

“They have. Draconids and insectoids, mostly. The occasional vampire. Not so many necrophages anymore now that there aren’t dead bodies littering the ground all over the place.”

“Son of a bitch,” she blurts when he lays down a card worth fifteen points, immediately gaining a hefty lead on her.

“Guess I’m not as rusty as I thought,” he smirks.

They’re interrupted by a knock at the door, and it opens to reveal Babette. “Dinner is served, Your Ladyship.”

“Thank you, Babette.” She stands, taking her wine glass with her as Babette retreats. “It’s not a fair match,” she complains petulantly, the wine already going to her head thanks to her empty stomach. “You’ve been collecting cards for a century.”

“Don’t be a sore loser.”

She can’t help but let out a bark of laughter. “Sore loser? We’re four moves in, I haven’t lost yet.”

They enter the small private dining chamber adjacent to the solar to find the table laden with freshly roasted pork, mashed potatoes, and hot bread. They pile their plates eagerly, and spend several moments eating in blissful silence.

“You ever miss life on the road?”

“I miss the freedom of it sometimes,” she confesses. “Not being accountable to anyone but myself. I miss having the option of being amoral sometimes, too. Now I always have to do the ‘right’ thing, and it’s exhausting.”

Geralt gives a short chuckle. “Bet there are villagers all over Temeria who are still traumatized by you to this day.”

She smirks. “Well, they all deserved it, I’ll say that much.”

“Remember when you made that one guy eat dirt?”

It’s the wine’s fault, but she laughs in spite of herself, and soon Geralt is chuckling, too. “And worms,” she gasps, “don’t forget the worms.”

Phoebe collapses back in her chair as the laughter finally tapers off, her sides hurting.

“Gotta say, those were probably the best times of my life. Riding with you, taking contracts, scuffling with villagers. Only time I ever considered being a witcher fun. Always wanted to thank you for that,” Geralt says sincerely, and Phoebe suddenly feels like an anvil has been tied to her feet as she crashes back down to earth. The smile slips right off her face, her hands gripping the armrests of her chair so hard that her knuckles are turning white.

All of the anger and frustration from earlier today has surged to the surface, and she tries to push it down. How dare he speak to her so sweetly, after everything that’s happened? How dare he make her laugh? How dare the universe make everything feel so normal, as if the last three years never happened? And she played right into it, reminiscing over wine and gwent like he’s just some benign old friend she ran into at a tavern.

_What the fuck are you doing?_

Geralt’s eyes are trained on her. “Phoebe?”

She stands abruptly. “Excuse me,” she says flatly, her mind reeling from the wine. She needs to get out of here, but Geralt’s standing too, stepping around the table to get closer. She trips in her haste to back away.

“What’s going on? What just happened?”

She turns away and heads for the door, but she can hear him behind her. “Phoebe,” he says, more firmly this time- almost harsh.

She whirls around. _“_ Just leave me _alone,_ Geralt, _”_ she snarls venomously.

He looks slightly taken aback. “You’re angry.”

She turns and strides angrily down the hall towards the stairs.

“Hey,” he calls after her, his long strides making it easy for him to keep up.

_Ignore, ignore, ignore,_ she chants to herself as she starts up the stairs to the third level. But then he grabs her arm, firmly enough that she rebounds slightly to collide with his chest, and the disgustingly recognizable jolt in her stomach sends her over the edge. He’s right there, at her back, his scent descending around her, his strong fingers still wrapped around her upper arm, scorching her skin through her shirt.

“Yes, I’m angry,” she hisses, glaring daggers up into his handsome face. “You have _no idea_ what it took to make life feel normal again after all the shit you put me through, and you don’t get to just show up here after three years and say shit like _that,”_ she gestures sharply in the direction of the dining room. “Shit that I would’ve given _anything_ to hear back then, and now you’re offering it to me when I don’t even want it. I don’t want it, and I don’t need it, and I don’t even know _why_ you’re here!” She yanks her arm out of his grasp, her eyes stinging with tears. “I’m going to bed.” She can feel him standing there, silent, just watching, as she storms down the hall to her chambers and slams the door behind her.

Then she sinks to the floor, and bursts into tears.

So much for not letting him see her crack.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things are starting to heat up, so if you ain't about that sexually explicit life, get out while you can. ;) thanks for the comments and kudos, they really make my day!

_Woods East of Anchor, Temeria_

_May 1272_

“Whew,” she exclaimed, flinging herself onto her back on the ground and panting heavily. “That was intense, even by our standards.” She was so drenched in sweat that her gloves stuck to her hands as she tried to tug them off, only loosening from her fingers after several sharp yanks. Her bastian was soaked through and clinging to her skin uncomfortably. All she wanted to do was shed all of the leather on her body and jump into the river, but that was obviously out of the question, so she made do with enjoying the breeze on her newly exposed wrists and hands.

Geralt leaned against a nearby tree and crossed his arms over his chest, smiling down at her smugly. “Eh. I could’ve kept going. Only stopped ‘cause you were about to swoon. Felt bad.”

Phoebe propped herself up on her elbows and scowled at him indignantly. “You’re full of shit.” He continued to give her that infuriating self-satisfied look, and she narrowed her eyes. “You know, maybe I should actually start trying to kill you when we spar. That’ll wipe the smirk off your face real quick.”

“Interested to see that,” he deadpanned dismissively, his eyes boring into hers in a way that suddenly made her insides squirm.

“Be careful what you wish for,” she shot back. She glared up at him, still panting softly, but now only partially due to the exertion of sparring. His cat-like pupils were fixed on her, and much to her chagrin, her body seemed to relish being pinned under their gaze.

The smugness on Geralt’s face had faded somewhat as they remained suspended, devouring each other from afar, for what felt like an eternity. Then, his eyes flicked down her neck to her rapidly rising and falling chest, outlined lewdly by her clinging shirt. Searing liquid heat pooled deep in her core as they lingered there, then rose back to lock with her own. She tried to hold his gaze until he backed down or something else happened, but it seemed they were both doing the same thing- waiting for what came next, yet clearly not fully ready to confront it, should it come. Eventually she couldn’t handle the heat his eyes were fueling inside her anymore. She broke the contact, flopping back onto the ground with a huff.

The entire exchange had lasted maybe twenty seconds, but it had felt like a lifetime.

This was the routine they had fallen into in the two weeks since they’d left Vizima- two weeks during which the tension between them had seemed to mount at a highly elevated rate. The journey from Vizima to Anchor, where they were now, should only have taken a week at most, even while stopping for contracts. But thanks to unseasonably harsh spring storms and flooding, they had been delayed for five days while taking a contract in a tiny village just outside Vizima. The period of inactivity had only served to ratchet up the already mounting pressure.

Phoebe was scarcely able to handle being near Geralt at all for how much his presence distracted her, while also feeling unable to tolerate any distance from him whatsoever. She suspected he might be experiencing the same torment, for she often felt his eyes on her or caught him staring outright. No matter where they were or what they were doing, they seemed to unwittingly gravitate towards each other like magnets, even in such mundane situations as riding side by side or buying wares from a merchant.

But no time was more unbearable than the mornings where they would spar. The elevated heart rates, the adrenaline, the sweat, the thrill of using real blades- they all created a perfect storm for pent-up energy to spill over. Sometimes it was as simple as smoldering looks and lingering sexual frustration for the rest of the day. Others, like today, Geralt seemed to enjoy pushing her buttons, riling her up while she was still hot and bothered from the rush of fighting, and she wondered how many more of those instances it would take before one of them snapped.

Still, for all the turbulence the witcher had ignited in her core lately, she found she had enjoyed every minute of their journey thus far- perhaps too much. Being around Geralt was just _easy_ \- they picked up each others’ cues, bantered back and forth, told stories about the past. She even managed to make him laugh, which she considered to be a point of particular pride.

She’d grown a deep admiration for him in observing him over their short time together, too. He seemed to genuinely believe he was a bad, unworthy person, maybe even a monster, but the irony was that if anyone was living proof that stereotypes about witchers were baseless, it was him. He was flawed just like anyone else, but she hadn’t once seen him turn down a cry for help, contract or no. Underneath his stoic exterior he was sensitive, and she knew that deep down, it hurt him every time an insult was thrown out just loud enough for him to hear. He never killed without thought or reflection. And she was sure that he was near-unmatched in intelligence and intuition.

But even as their growing closeness brought her more happiness than she’d had in a long while, it had begun to create a dilemma for Phoebe. As her feelings for Geralt heated, her feelings for Avallac’h seemed to gradually cool. She knew that at this rate, her relationship with Avallac’h would be effectively over before long. It wasn’t that she felt _guilt_ about this, necessarily- they had both known this day would come, after all. It was more that she hadn’t even been able to bring their relationship, her first romantic relationship, to a proper close. She hadn’t been able to talk through it with Avallac’h, and transition _together_ from the realm of lovers to that of friends. And, even besides all that, she was afraid. Afraid of such a big shift in what was in many ways the most significant relationship of any she’d ever had, even moreso than her relationships with Ciri, or her parents. Avallac’h was the longest constant she’d had in her life since before she was taken by the dryads.

She was rather overtaken by these thoughts every time she and Geralt had a particularly charged moment. Such was the case now, as she lay on the ground trying to tamp down the inferno raging in her core. _Whatever happens with Geralt, I can’t let myself be distracted from what’s really important right now: getting home, and finding Avallac’h and Ciri._

The witcher in question had moved towards the horses to procure his water skin from Roach’s saddle. “We’ll reach Anchor today,” he remarked, uncorking the skin and taking a swig. Phoebe stared longingly at it, realizing only now how parched she was. He raised an eyebrow, brandishing the water skin at her slightly in offering, and she stood eagerly to accept it with a grateful smile. “Think we should stop there, check for contracts? Or you wanna keep moving?”

She tilted her head back to take a deep pull from the skin, watching as his eyes followed the path of a stray rivulet from the corner of her mouth down her neck. She swiped it away with the back of her hand before handing the skin back to him. “Is there an inn there?”

“Nothing fancy, but yeah.”

“Well, I wouldn’t mind sleeping in a real bed.”

She savored the coolness of the breeze blowing through her sweat-soaked bastian as they rode, having abandoned wearing her cuirass altogether when the weather had begun to warm in earnest over the last week. Glancing over at her companion, she wondered how he managed to survive in his heavy armor, but he seemed not to notice the heat at all.

It was past midday when the silhouette of Anchor made its appearance on the horizon, and Phoebe couldn’t wait for a bath, a hot meal, and a flagon of ale. It was a larger village than she had been used to encountering on their journeys, with a proper wall of wooden pikes surrounding it and sturdy gates. She could count at least fifteen huts as they rode over the threshold, and appreciated the relative tidiness of the village, which had a well at its center, flanked on one side by the noticeboard. She noted the more-hateful-than-usual looks they were receiving from the villagers as they approached the board and dismounted.

“No work for you ‘ere, freak,” a young, beady-eyed, mousy-haired man called harshly from the doorway of his nearby hut, glowering at Geralt.

Anger flared in Phoebe’s gut as she turned on the man coolly, reaching behind her head to rest a casual hand on the hilt of her sword. “Is there a problem?” she asked smoothly, raising her eyebrows expectantly and releasing some magic into her fingers to get her irises to glow. The man’s rodent-like eyes darted from her own to her sword once, twice. “No?” she prompted. His mouth tightened into a thin, disdainful line, but he kept quiet. “Then I strongly suggest you get back to your business.”

The man spat on the ground at their feet, then strode into his hut and slammed the door. Phoebe shifted towards Geralt again to find him staring down at her oddly, his brows furrowed. “What?” she asked innocently.

He shook his head slightly, as if to snap himself out of it, and turned to examine the noticeboard. After a few seconds of silence, he scoffed. “Nothing. Not a single contract.”

“Huh,” she acknowledged, twisting her body into a stretch. “Well, since we’re here with nothing to do, I say we go to the inn and get drunk.” He raised his eyebrows at her. “What? It’s too late to keep moving, anyway.”

“Guess I can’t argue with that,” he acquiesced with a resigned shrug.

She gave a small squeak of excitement and clapped her hands together. _Finally, some time to just relax in the comfort of actual shelter,_ she thought gratefully.

The inn was a single-story, u-shaped structure, the middle section of which seemed to house the tavern, while the sections on either side were lined with doors leading directly into the various rooms. They led the horses into the surprisingly spacious- and full- barn, left them with the stablehand, and reemerged into the afternoon sunlight with their saddlebags under their arms.

She looked up at him, shielding her eyes with a hand. “What say you to getting rooms and baths first?”

“Good idea.”

They reached the tavern door, which Geralt opened to let her through first. It was riotously crowded inside, to Phoebe’s immense surprise. “I definitely wasn’t expecting to see it so packed,” she remarked, raising her voice to a near-yell over the din.

“Last stop before Vizima,” Geralt replied equally loudly, leaning down close to her ear. She shivered at the feeling of his breath on her neck, and took a deep inhale of his rugged scent. “All kinds of travelers pass through here on their way to and from.” They picked their way between tables to the counter, where he flagged down the innkeep.

“And what can I do for the two o’ you?”

“Two rooms, please.”

“Sorry, but all’s we got left is the imperial quarters. It’s on’y got one bed, but it’s got a separate sitting room with a sofa.” Phoebe felt Geralt stiffen beside her, and tried to quell the lurch in her own stomach at the thought of sharing chambers with him. It made no sense; she slept right next to him on the ground every night, but somehow the thought of sharing a room at an inn seemed more intimate, even if Geralt slept on the sofa.

“And how much is that gonna run me?”

“Forty crowns.”

Geralt’s lip curled menacingly. “What, are you n-”

“Here,” she interjected, reaching into her coinpurse and slapping the gold on the counter. “We’d like two baths, please, now.”

“As you say, miss.” The innkeep snatched up the coin, as if he were afraid Geralt might take it back if he took too long, and hurried off towards one of the circulating barmaids to order their baths.

Geralt glared obstinately at her, and she huffed. “Don’t start, Geralt. It’s the only room left and I’m not passing up the opportunity to sleep with a roof over my head.”

“You coulda let me haggle for a lower price instead of letting yourself get ripped off.”

“I don’t care about getting ripped off right now; all I care about is bathing.”

“That’s great, but I still gotta pay you half, so _I_ care.”

“You can pay for the ale,” she replied brightly as the innkeep returned armed with a rather rusty key.

“I’ll show ye to your chambers if ye’ll just follow me,” he said jovially, leading them back out the tavern door.

They followed the innkeep along the right side of the inn, all the way to the last door, which she noticed had a significant stretch of wall on either side of it.

“So, is this your finest room, or something? Is that why it’s available?” she asked.

“Mos’ folk don’t see fit to spend the coin on it,” he replied, turning the key in the lock.

“And they’re right,” Geralt grumped. Phoebe rolled her eyes.

The innkeep opened the door and waved them inside. The rooms were plain, but spacious, and quite clean for an inn in such a small village. True to the innkeep’s word, they walked in on a modest parlor with a fireplace, a sofa, a comfortable-looking armchair, a rectangular dining table, and a bookcase. Through an open door to the left Phoebe could see a good-sized four-post bed covered with a worn but nicely crafted quilt. The floors were of scrubbed wood, adorned with one fine but aged rug per room. It was nothing fancy, just as Geralt had said, but it was still veritable luxury compared to sleeping on the ground.

“No spare tubs at the moment, so ‘fraid ye’ll have to take yer baths one at a time. They’ll be in with the first one any second.” The innkeep handed Geralt the key and excused himself.

They stood in awkward silence for a second before Phoebe moved into the bedroom and set her saddlebags down on the trunk against the far wall. She heard Geralt shuffling around in the other room, likely doing the same thing she was as she sank into the chair by the fireplace to remove her boots. She busied herself with readying her bathing supplies and setting them on the small stool near the tub, which was pushed into a corner and hidden behind a screen. Then she fished her spare bastian and smallclothes out of her saddlebag and laid them on the bed. In no time, servants were filing in one by one to dump steaming buckets of water into the tub, and then she was alone behind closed doors, dunking her head blissfully under the hot water and making quick work of scrubbing herself clean of salty sweat and grime.

As much as she wanted to soak her sore muscles, she hurried through her usual washing of her dirty smallclothes and shirt, hung them to dry, and quickly rubbed herself off with a linen cloth. Finally, she moisturized her skin, dressed, and emerged into the other room with her bottle of oil and comb in-hand. Geralt watched from a fire-side chair as she sat at the table and worked her special oil through her wet hair with her fingertips, then ran her comb through the tangles. There was a knock at the door, which Geralt answered to reveal the servants again, bearing freshly boiled water for his bath.

Phoebe ran her hands through her newly-untangled locks a few times and stood as the servants trooped in and out of the bedroom with their buckets, filing past Geralt, who was just beginning to unbuckle his armor.

“I’m going to get us a table while you bathe,” she announced, picking up her sword and moving towards the open doorway. “Don’t take too long, or I might be drunk already before you show up.” She quirked an eyebrow at him over her shoulder.

The afternoon sun was still strong as she crossed the courtyard back to the tavern door, and she had to pause in the doorway for a few seconds to let her eyes adjust to the dimness within. She made a beeline through the crowd to the only empty table left, stuffed away in the back corner. She knew service would be slower there, but no matter; at least she and Geralt would be away from prying, judgmental eyes.

She slid along the bench to the corner spot, ensuring that she’d have a clear view of the room and its inhabitants at all times, and laid her sword on the table. A few moments went by before a young barmaid finally approached.

“What’ll it be, miss?” she asked tersely, her eyes flitting all over the room even as she addressed Phoebe.

“Two flagons of your strongest ale, and food for me and my traveling companion, please.” She dropped a few coins onto the table. “That’s for your prolonged attentiveness this evening.”

“Understood, miss.”

Phoebe sat back and surveyed the crowd. She spotted the peasant she’d had words with earlier, amongst a large group near the center of the tavern. She’d have to keep an eye on him, lest he try to cause more trouble. As she scanned the rest of the patrons, she was assaulted by a tingling on the back of her neck- the sensation that she was being watched. It wasn’t long before her eyes locked onto the source of the feeling: a man, with a glossy black beard and piercing blue eyes. He was staring at her intently, scrutinizingly almost. But before she could react, the barmaid had returned with two large flagons of ale and two tankards.

“Thanks,” Phoebe said gratefully, immediately filling her tankard to the brim and taking a long pull from it.Even after the first sip, she felt that telltale warmth spreading from her belly outwards to the tips of her fingers and toes, and the mysterious blue-eyed man was promptly forgotten.

By the time Geralt’s statuesque form appeared in the doorway, his damp hair half-tied behind his head like always, Phoebe’s insides were positively buzzing, and she was fighting the impulse to giggle for no reason at all. Still, though, she schooled her features into a more dignified expression as she caught his eye and flagged him down. She felt strangely warm and proud when he inclined his head at her and immediately made his way to where she was sitting. He was Geralt of Rivia, _the_ Geralt of Rivia… and he was with her.

She couldn’t help but smile a little when he automatically set his weapons next to hers and lowered himself down beside her on the bench, instead of taking the seat opposite. His scent had lost its bite of adrenaline now that he’d bathed, but he still smelled woodsy and intoxicating, and she tried to inhale subtly as she reached across the table for his tankard and filled it for him.

“Good bath?”

“Very.” He raised his tankard at her and drank from it deeply. “See you started the party without me.”

“Couldn’t help it,” she replied lightly, drinking from her own ale in turn. “Might’ve sightly underestimated the strength of this particular ale, though, I admit.” At his questioning look, she added, “I got the strongest one.”

He raised his eyebrows. “The strongest one? You weigh about the same as a pillowcase full of dead leaves.”

“It wasn’t for _me_ ,” she retorted indignantly. “I know it takes a lot for witchers to get drunk, and I wasn’t about to let you drink me under the table.”

“Looks like you shot yourself in the foot on that one.”

“We’ll see.” She grinned at him impishly. “Let’s play a drinking game. That way you’ll be forced to catch up.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Nothing crazy! Just Two Truths and a Lie. If you guess right, I drink, if you guess wrong, you drink. And vice versa, obviously.” He was eyeing her doubtfully over the rim of his tankard, and she dove on before he could object again. “I’ll go first.” She took a swig of her ale and cleared her throat. “I’ve never been to Toussaint, my favorite food is beef stew, and I love reading.”

“Reading. That’s the lie.”

She smirked at him. “Drink up.”

He stared at her disbelievingly.

“My favorite food is honey cakes. Drink.”

He narrowed his eyes dubiously at her, but brought his cup to his lips and drank from it nonetheless.

“Your turn,” she urged.

“Alright. Let’s see.” He paused awkwardly. “I’m a terrible actor, I prefer light armor, and my favorite monster to kill is drowners.”

“The one about drowners is the lie.”

He glared at her for a second, before drinking from his tankard again. “Don’t look so cocky. That was a lucky guess.”

She snorted. “Please. It doesn’t take a genius to know you’re a terrible actor when you can’t even pretend to be courteous to the Emperor of Nilfgaard. And a ‘favorite monster to kill’? Who has a favorite monster to kill? Do better.”

“Whatever,” he grunted. “Your turn.”

“Hmm…” She shifted on the bench to face him, resting her chin in her palm. “My eye color is the one I was born with, Avallac’h was my first kiss, and I’ve never broken a bone.”

“Eye color.”

She grinned triumphantly at him as she picked up his tankard and set it firmly back down right in front of him. “Drink.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You were born with it?” She nodded. “And you don’t think you’re a source?”

She rolled her eyes.

“Which one’s the lie?”

“Avallac’h being my first kiss.”

He looked intrigued. “If he wasn’t, who was?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know. Drink! And think of an actually good one this time.”

He took a reluctant pull of ale and brooded for a few moments, while Phoebe drummed her fingers on the table impatiently. “Alright. I met Yen and Triss at the same time, I hate portals, and I prefer mares over geldings.”

“Hmm,” she hummed. “I’m gonna say… the one about portals is the lie. I can’t imagine you hating something so convenient.”

It was his turn to smirk. “Drink.”

She gaped at him, scoffing in disbelief. “So which one’s the lie?”

“I met Yen before Triss.”

“Huh,” she acknowledged with a shrug, drinking deeply from her tankard and then slapping it back down onto the table. “Let’s see… Aha! I love wearing gowns, my penmanship is horrible, and my bow is my favorite weapon.”

“The gowns.”

“Nope. I actually do love wearing gowns. Just never get the opportunity.”

He sighed, and tilted his head back to drink. She eyed his smooth, strong neck, and pushed down the image that flashed through her mind of herself running her tongue along the length of it. She averted her gaze and tried to focus. “So, the penmanship, then?”

“Uh-uh,” she shook her head, refilling their tankards.

“How does that make sense? I’ve seen you use your bow, it can’t be that one.”

“My bow is my _strongest_ weapon, not my favorite. My sword is my favorite.”

“That’s just tricky wordplay."

“Don’t be a sore loser.”

He scowled. “Gonna think of a good one to shut you up.”

She snorted and leaned back against the wall, bending her knee up to rest her foot in front of her on the bench.

“I don’t remember my mother, my best friend is a bard, and I don’t have a favorite food.”

“The food one?”

“Sorry,” he said smugly, pushing her ale towards her.

“Which one?” She eyed him over the rim of her tankard as she drank.

“My mother. Met her some years back, though I didn’t remember her before that.”

The barmaid appeared at the table, carrying a tray laden with two large bowls of beef stew and a loaf of bread. “Sir, miss,” she said, setting a bowl before each of them. “Anything else?”

“Two more flagons of ale, please,” Phoebe interjected before Geralt could say no. She heard him scoff, but ignored it. When she pivoted on the bench to face the table again, her leg came to rest lightly against his, and her stomach jolted. She was about to pull away, but did she imagine it, or did his leg press back against hers, ever so slightly? Her eyes shot up to his face, searching for any sign that it was intentional, but he appeared engrossed in the bowl of stew before him. She was suddenly feeling very hot as she picked up her spoon and dunked it into her own bowl, but she didn’t move her leg away from his.

“Your turn,” Geralt grunted around a mouthful of bread.

“Umm…” She tried to gather her thoughts, ignoring the fluttering in her stomach, the heat pooling anew deep in her core. “Um, I was betrothed before the dryads took me, I always wanted a pet cat, and Ciri and I didn’t get along when we first met.”

“Ciri. Knowing the two of you, no way in hell am I gonna believe you weren’t like two peas in a pod right from the beginning.”

She gaped at him, then drank from her tankard. “I’m impressed.”

“Was bound to happen sooner or later,” he deadpanned. He took a swig of ale and stood from the table. “Be right back.” She watched his retreating back as he made his way through the crowd in the direction of the garderobe.

She stared unseeing into her stew as she took a few breaths and tried to compose herself. She was hot, bothered, and starting to see double thanks to the ale. She needed to get a grip. But she was interrupted by a familiar harsh, mocking voice.

“Well, well, well. If it ain’t the witcher’s little whore.”

She looked up to see the rude peasant from earlier, swaggering drunkenly towards the table with his arms outstretched and a punchable smirk on his lips. She took a nonchalant sip of ale as she glared up at him. “Need another warning, do you?”

“My friends and I were just wondrin’,” he slurred, grinning as he gestured towards the drunk cluster of men behind him. “Wossit like, fuckin’ a degenerate like that? When ‘e comes, is it green, like acid?”

Sickening, overpowering anger seemed to surge up her throat. The man leaned forward against his hands on the table as she smoothly drained her tankard in one swoop, rivulets of ale trickling from either side down her neck. She prayed her eyes were as bright as she thought they were as she set her tankard back on the table, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and stood, calmly picking up her back scabbard and putting it on. She didn’t take her eyes off the repulsive man as she sidestepped out from behind the table.

“What’s going on here?” came Geralt’s gravelly voice as he reappeared beside her.

“Say it again, I didn’t quite hear you,” she instructed the man, her voice deadly as poison. He hesitated, seemingly assessing her, his eyes traveling back and forth between her and Geralt.

She felt Geralt’s hand wrap firmly around her upper arm, heard him drop some coin on the table for their meal. “Let it go,” he murmured in her ear. “Come on. Not worth it.” She exhaled slowly through her nose and gave a slight nod, allowing him to pull her towards the exit and trying to ignore the victorious smirk on the man’s face. She let Geralt physically turn her away by the shoulders and reposition her to walk in front of him, but then she heard that insect’s voice calling after her, and stopped dead in her tracks.

“I said, when that _freak_ fucks you, is his come green, like _acid_?”

In a flash, she had sidestepped Geralt and hurled herself at the peasant, grasping his collar in one fist while the other cocked back to break his nose. She had time to connect her fist with his face one time before Geralt was on her. The uproar in the tavern was deafening, and she didn’t let go when Geralt’s strong arms wrapped around her middle and hauled her back. The wretched man was momentarily dragged across the tavern by his shirt, his face bloody and contorted with panic, until the material ripped away and he fell backwards onto the floor, a ribbon of old linen fluttering in Phoebe’s fist as Geralt dragged her, kicking and screaming, out the door and into the cool night air.

“Let me _go,”_ she shrieked, trying to pry his arms away from her midsection. He pushed her backwards slightly as he set her on her feet, and she rounded on him, her anger spilling over. “What the _fuck_ is your problem?”

“I told you to let it go,” he growled, catching her with a hand on her stomach and hauling her back again as she tried to storm past him towards the tavern door. “Don’t need you to constantly pick fights on my behalf. Told you I’m used to the way they act.”

“Well _I’m_ not used to it, and you missed the part where he called me a whore,” she shot back.

“He was trying to get a rise out of you. You should’ve known better than to take the bait.”

“Well, excuse me for trying to defend you,” she spat.

“I come to these villages to work,” he snarled, his composure finally seeming to slip. “I need functional relationships with these people, not some twenty year old wreaking havoc everywhere I go and making my life harder by stirring up trouble.”

Phoebe felt like she’d been slapped. She saw regret flash across Geralt’s face as soon as the words left his mouth, but she didn’t care. “Making your life harder,” she ground out, her eyes filling with hot tears.

He took a step towards her. “Phoebe-”

“Messaged received, loud and clear.” She turned on her heel, wrenched open the door to their room, and slammed it so hard behind her that the windows rattled.

She stripped down to her smallclothes and angrily swiped the tears off her cheeks. Making his life harder? She couldn’t help how angry it made her when people insulted him, and she couldn’t stand to see him just lay down and take it. She was only trying to help him, support him- surely he could see that?

But as she went about readying herself for sleep and the intoxicating anger began to drain out of her, she began to see some truth in his words. Was she just ‘stirring up trouble’, as he put it? She saw how difficult a witcher’s existence was. She tried to imagine what it would be like to move through the world hated by everyone, having people think the absolute worst of you before even knowing you. The last thing she wanted to do was make that reality worse for Geralt. Had she been doing that all along?

Guilt settled like a stone in her stomach and she sighed as she climbed under the covers. She would stay up until Geralt came back, and she would apologize. That was the least she could do.

She settled back against the pillows, her eyes trained on the door, and began her vigil.

~

It had started out as a short walk, just to give her enough time to fall asleep so she wouldn’t have to see his ugly mug again tonight. Then he could apologize to her in the morning when they were both sober.

But now it was two hours later, and Geralt was still walking. It had just felt good to clear his head and sober up a little in the coolness of the outdoors, so he saw no reason to stop.

He felt terrible for what he’d said. He didn’t even know what possessed him to say it- it wasn’t even true. Sure, it created extra friction in his life to have Phoebe confront every person who insulted him, but to say that it bothered him or made his life harder was a blatant lie. In fact, it was just the opposite- he’d never had an ally like Phoebe. Even Yen and Triss hadn’t seen mundane peasant’s insults as being worth defending him over. With other people in his life, except for maybe Vesemir, there was always a niggling doubt about who would have his back. But with Phoebe, there was no question of where she’d be if it came down to a fight. She’d be right there beside him, raring to go, with his participation or without it.

As he made his way back towards the inn, he smiled slightly at the thought of how she’d been ready to beat that man in the tavern to a pulp with her bare hands, no magic or weapons necessary, and a sharp stab of guilt shot through him anew. It had gotten to him, the way her eyes had immediately filled with tears when he’d said what he’d said. How many witchers out there had companions who were willing to intercede on their behalf for any disrespect, no matter how small? And he had thrown that cruelly back in her face.

The myriad candles were burnt low, the fire reduced to glowing embers in the hearth when he silently crept through the door to their chambers. He could see Phoebe asleep under the covers, turned onto her side away from him in the bedroom, her bare arm resting on top of the quilt. He cringed when he tried to take a step forward and the old wooden floor creaked loudly under his boot, causing her to stir and sit up. She peered sleepily over her shoulder at him, her dark curls all swept over to one side, cheeks rosy, and he paused, staring.

“Geralt?”

Her voice was sweet, hopeful. Not angry in the slightest. He approached, making his way around to the side of the bed as she turned her body and shimmied forward to dangle her legs over the edge. His navel tightened at the sight of her in her smallclothes, which were unlike any he’d seen. Made of soft-looking white linen, the bodice ended at her waistline and was laced easily up the front with a thin white satin ribbon. The thin straps and top edge were adorned with simple cream floral embroidery, and he could just see the outlines of her dusky nipples through the light fabric. The bottoms were of matching material, also laced up the front to her bellybutton with an identical white ribbon. They were fitted from waist to hip and hemmed at the top of her thighs, like breeches that had been cropped very short. Her bare legs looked long despite her diminutive size, and so smooth. Geralt’s mouth suddenly ran very dry, but he pushed it aside, focusing back on her face.

He lowered himself into a squat right in front of her, bracing a hand on either side of her hips on the mattress.

Her eyes were so contrite, so unguarded for once as she gazed down at him. “Forgive me,” she said, her voice smaller than he was used to. She reached forward to place her hands on his shoulders, just on either side of his neck. The intimacy of the gesture made the tight feeling behind his navel intensify. “I thought I was helping. I don’t want to make your life harder. I’m sorry.”

“No,” he shook his head, holding her gaze. “I’m the one who should be sorry. Don’t even know why I said what I said. Truth is, no one’s ever defended me the way you do. Means more to me than you know, and I never want you to think otherwise.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

She was close enough that he could smell her hair, her skin, still fresh from her bath earlier and tinged slightly with ale. Cedar, neroli, iris. In his squatting position, his knees were almost pressed into the side of the mattress, pinning her between them. His hands twitched with the desire to inch inwards and touch her, and he gathered she was fighting the same losing battle, because her own hands moved slowly up his shoulders to cup his neck. They were warm and soft, and her touch sent an electric shiver down his spine. He let his eyes fall closed as they tentatively moved up his neck to his face, brushing up through his beard and past his cheekbones to trace his hairline.

She trailed a fingertip softly down the scar over his eye, and then she was tracing the lines of his eyelashes, the bridge of his nose. His hands had moved of their own accord to cup the swell of her hips while she continued her gentle exploration, and he released a slow breath as he felt the heat of her skin under the thin linen. Finally, one hand came to rest against his neck again, while she ran the fingertips of the other over his lips. He opened his eyes, surprising himself as he impulsively caught her hand and dropped a chaste kiss on her palm, immediately feeling how dilated his pupils were as he tried to focus them on her. She must’ve noticed, too, because she gave a quiet gasp, and he honed his witcher senses to listen to her racing heartbeat- confirmation that she wanted this as much as he did.

It felt like a centuries-old itch was finally being scratched when she slid her hands back to hook behind his neck, and pulled herself down into his lap with a soft sigh. His hands immediately tightened their grip on her hips, pulling her firmly against himself as her slim, bare thighs slid down to straddle him. He wrapped his arms around her, letting one hand travel up her back to cup her head from behind, tangling it in her mess of lazy curls. She was soft and warm and pliant in his arms and he let all his lingering reservations go, let himself be lost to her for true, because nothing, truly nothing, that felt so right could ever be wrong.

And if it _was_ wrong, well… he was way past giving a fuck.

Even on his lap like this she was slightly shorter than him, and had tilted her head back slightly so that they were nose to nose, eyes riveted on each other, her heart pounding against his. “Wanted this since I first saw you,” he confessed in a rough whisper as she inched closer, her fingers curling into his hair and tugging, her nose brushing alongside his.

“Me, too,” she breathed into his mouth, before melding her lips with his.

He could taste the tanginess of ale and returned the kiss greedily, the hand on her waist rising to cup her jaw as he possessed her mouth with everything he had. His tongue skittered along the seam of her lips, begging for entrance, and she opened her mouth wantonly for him, releasing a small, breathy moan when his tongue slid slowly against hers. Geralt’s already hardening manhood twitched at the sound, and when he pulled back slightly to take in her swollen lips, her mussed hair, her eyelids hanging at half-mast over black pupils blown so wide that only a sliver of glowing amber was left around the edges, his cock hardened to where it was almost painful.

He dove forward again, catching her mouth in a searing kiss which she returned with equal vigor, her nimble hands working at the buckles on his armor while his slipped under her bodice to run over her scorching flesh. He was reluctant to take his hands off her again, but the need to feel her touch on his skin was greater than his reluctance, so he set about helping her in her task as he trailed open-mouthed kisses down from the corner of her mouth to her throat, earning him another moan. Once his armor was off and thudding heavily to the floor, she wasted no time in pulling at the laces on his bastian, opening it over his chest and running her hands over the smattering of wiry hairs there.

She tugged his shirt upwards and he took the hint, breaking contact between his lips and her throat just long enough to wrench the offending garment over his head before latching back on, his palms running down the length of her smooth legs all the way to her dainty little feet, which fit just right in his hands. She traced the scars on his abdomen with her fingertips, lingering extra long on the still-healing one she had mended herself on his shoulder, and he almost purred into her neck under her touch. Nose buried behind her ear, he inhaled her scent until it made him dizzy. For her part, she was doing her own exploration of his neck, rubbing her nose up the length of it and following it slowly with the flat of her hot tongue, and now it was his turn to moan. She reared back and pulled his head up with a hand twined in the back of his hair, cupping the front of his neck with the other hand as she gave his lower lip a sharp nip, smoothed her tongue over it with a teasing grin, then locked her lips with his once more. The small show of dominance had him groaning against her mouth.

Something in the back of his mind, a little voice, told him they were going too fast, that they should stop and take it one step at a time. That this was too important to rush. He was about to heed that voice, too. But then Phoebe gave a slow, experimental buck of her hips against his, and his mind was wiped completely blank. Her keening moan mixed with his ragged growl in the space between their mouths, and his hands viscerally flew down to her ass, gripping it tightly as he pulled her hips harder against his. She rocked into him again, and he could feel her hot, damp core against his cock through her smallclothes and his breeches. His hand was slipping between their bodies of its own accord, fumbling with her laces before sliding down the flat of her stomach, anticipating the hot, silky wetness awaiting his fingers just a few inches lower.

But just as she was inching her legs open wider, tilting her hips to meet his searching fingers, there was a loud rustling at the door and they both froze, eyes wide, panting feverishly. Phoebe craned her neck to eye the door over her shoulder.

After several seconds of silence, Geralt grasped her jaw and turned her face back towards him, ducking his head to run his tongue along her lower lip. He sucked it gently between his teeth and reveled in the little whimper that fell out of her mouth, her fingers tightening their hold on his hair. Cupping the back of her neck, he was tilting her head back to deepen the kiss, swallowing her resulting moan, when they were interrupted once again, this time by a sharp rap on the door.

Geralt reared back with an angry snarl as he slipped his hand back out of Phoebe’s smallclothes and grasped her legs to wrap around his waist, taking her with him as he stood. He deposited her gently on the bed and crept towards the door, picking up his steel sword along the way and trying to ignore his erection straining against his breeches. The shadowed outline of a folded piece of parchment was visible on the floor near the door as he slowly twisted the key in the lock and turned the knob, pulling the door open just wide enough for him to peer out and see that there was no one there.

“What is it?” Phoebe whispered from the bed. Locking the door again, he stooped to snatch up the piece of parchment and held it up near the smoldering fireplace to read the one scrawled line of text.

_Call on me tomorrow morning, sunrise. House to the left of the inn. Be discreet._

“What’s it say?”

Geralt turned to find Phoebe at his elbow, standing on her tip-toes to try to read over his shoulder. He handed her the note and looped an arm around her waist, dragging her back against his chest and splaying one hand possessively over her belly while the other swept her hair to the side, giving him access to her neck while she read. Now that he’d finally tasted her, felt her soft body against his, any distance between them suddenly felt intolerable.

“This is weird,” she commented excitedly.

“Hmm,” he hummed against her throat, and smirked when he felt her shiver. His cock, which had softened somewhat in the last few minutes, twitched back to life.

“What do you make of it?”

“Not sure, honestly. Gonna have to just go there to find out.” He sighed reluctantly, straightening back up. “Sunrise is only a few hours away. You should get some sleep.”

She twisted to peer shyly up at him through her sooty lashes. “Stay with me?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” he growled, and seeing her bright, relieved smile, he couldn’t even be mad about how they’d been interrupted. He cupped her chin with one hand and pulled her face up to capture her lips in a deep, languid kiss, pressing her harder against him with the hand on her stomach. She sighed into his mouth, reaching up behind his head for purchase as she raised herself on her toes and parted her lips for his tongue. _Gods_ , he wanted her, his fingers aching to discover those elusive spots on her body that would make her scream for him, his body calling for hers like nothing he’d ever known. He let their tongues dance together a few seconds before begrudgingly breaking the kiss, releasing her before he lost himself again and following as she dislodged from his arms and padded into the bedroom.

He shed his boots and his breeches while she climbed into bed, then slid in beside her, wrapping an arm around her middle and hauling her back against him. He cast a strong enough Igni over his shoulder to extinguish all the candles in the room at once, then dropped an open-mouthed kiss on the side of her neck, smiling to himself when he heard her contented sigh.

No, nothing that felt so right could ever be wrong.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello to all of the wonderful people who have been reading this story! thank you so much to everyone who left comments and kudos on the last chapter, especially Red__Wolf and Just_looking_for_fanfictions, who have commented more than once. thanks also to anyone who's bookmarked or subscribed. i really can't tell you how much it gasses me up to know you guys are enjoying reading this as much as i'm enjoying writing it.
> 
> i just want to say i'm so sorry for the kind of long gap between the last update and this one- i really wanted this next part of the story to be perfect, and the pressure of that made it a painstaking process to write. BUT to make it up to you, i'm actually posting two chapters at once, and they're jam-packed full of exciting stuff. WARNING to any prudes reading this: these two chapters are lemon-heavy. if that's a problem for you, feel free to make your way to the exit. also, small trigger warning: brief mention of sexual assault.
> 
> i hope you enjoy! please drop a note and let me know what you think!

_Anchor, Temeria_

_May 1272_

Phoebe couldn’t recall the last time she’d felt so safe and relaxed. She was surrounded by that heavenly scent of leather and forest, her body encircled by strong arms and warmed from behind by the most solid, wonderful body imaginable. She snuggled further back into Geralt’s bare chest as she felt his warm, dry lips on her shoulder, knowing he was trying to wake her for their mysterious rendezvous, but wholly unwilling to leave the comfort of his embrace. He seemed prepared for this, though, because he continued to pepper slow kisses over her shoulder and back, letting the hand on her stomach drift over her side and down her bare thigh.

She sighed blissfully and turned her head and shoulders back towards him slightly, finally opening her eyes and feeling relieved to see that it was still dark, which meant that they had at least a _little_ time before they had to stir. He had his head propped up on one elbow, and the hand that had been exploring her thigh returned to her stomach, sneaking under her bodice to lay flat against her skin as he gazed wolfishly down at her. His touch sent lightning bolts of heat straight down between her legs and she squeezed her thighs together, trying to alleviate the pressure building on top of what was already lingering there from last night.

Lazily and without taking his eyes off hers, he slipped his hand back out of her bodice and trailed his fingers slowly down her stomach towards her aching center, causing her breath to catch as a fresh flood of wetness grew between her thighs. She bit her lip in frustration when Geralt’s hand slowed to a halt just at the edge of her mound, and she thought she saw a hint of satisfaction on his face in response. Then, to her intense disappointment, he began to trace his fingers back the way they came at a torturously slow pace. By the time they arrived at the valley between her breasts, she was panting softly, her body drawn taut as a bowstring and thighs sliding against each other thanks to her increasing slick. 

She could feel his hardness against her lower back and instinctively rocked against it, drawing a quiet growl from him as he continued to stare down at her with pupils so dilated that they had turned into circles instead of the usual cat-like slits. But he didn’t lose his composure as she’d hoped he would, instead continuing his crawling torture as he ever so slowly trailed his hand over to cup a breast. She arched into it, desperate for firmer contact, and he acquiesced, palming her breast fully and drawing his thumb slowly back and forth over the pebbled nipple through the fabric. Another sharp chord of pleasure shot down to her womanhood and she couldn’t suppress her moan as she slung her arm up behind his head and curled her fist into his hair.

He made her whimper as he gave her other breast the same treatment, before inching his hand up to cup her throat, sliding up her neck until his thumb and forefinger were braced around her jaw. Then he finally descended on her, covering her mouth with his in a dizzying, aggressive kiss, his tongue coaxing her mouth open to slide addictively against hers. Deciding to take matters into her own hands, Phoebe turned to face him, hooking her leg over his hips and immediately pressing her now-sopping core against the hard length nestled perfectly between her thighs. She couldn’t help but cry out against his lips as she finally got the friction she’d been craving; all thought flew from her mind, and it was as if her entire reason for being had been reduced to the point where their hips met. Geralt had released a groan of his own, one hand flying down to grip her backside, and she hitched her knee up higher along his side, widening the angle and giving her firmer contact as he pressed his hand into her flesh to draw her hips against his own again. And again.

“So wet. You could come just like this, couldn’t you?” Geralt husked low and rough against her mouth.

 _“Yes,”_ she whimpered needily.

And it was true. She had never felt so wild with need before, that telltale pressure building deep inside her with every rock of her hips, even without the touch of flesh on flesh. She was dimly aware that the room was beginning to brighten, the gray light of dawn threatening to creep through the windows, but she didn’t care; all she cared about was Geralt’s body against hers, his mouth on her mouth, the exquisite press of his manhood against her over-sensitive bundle of nerves.

But then the unthinkable happened.

A rooster crowed in the distance, and Geralt stopped moving.

“No,” she mewled in protest, and tried to keep bucking against him, but he drew back, holding her hips at bay with a strong hand. She almost sobbed with need when she felt cold air hit her soaked smallclothes.

“Sun’s rising, and we shouldn’t be late.” He smirked when she gave him her deadliest glare, and drew close again, touching his forehead to hers. “Don’t worry. Gonna make it up to you later. Besides…” He trailed his hand between her breasts and down her stomach, pausing for a fraction of a second before sliding his index and middle finger soundly over the drowned fabric covering her womanhood. She keened, throwing her head back as her hips bucked sharply against his hand of their own accord, and a shiver ran down her spine at the growled words that came next. “…I wanna be touching you, skin to skin, the first time I make you come.”

Then he was pulling his hand away and rolling off the bed onto his feet.

“You should get dressed,” he threw over his shoulder, and she stared at his toned back in disbelief as he walked out of the room.

She scoffed, turning onto her back and staring at the ceiling in stunned anger, her core pulsating with unsatisfied need. She hadn’t expected Geralt to be such a tease, for all his serious, stiff morality in his day-to-day life. She shook her head, trying to dispel the cloud of frustration and desire hanging around her. Then she wrenched the covers off and got out of bed in a huff, yanking on her clothing, starting with fresh smallclothes.

She briefly contemplated the surreality of the last eight hours. She wasn’t sure what had possessed her to make a move on Geralt in the first place, but she’d never experienced anything like what she’d been feeling since that moment. Once she’d felt his hands on her body, his lips against hers, everything else had fallen away into insignificance, and she couldn’t escape the strange feeling that every step she’d taken since her capture in Brokilon had somehow been leading her to this moment, this partnership, this bond she felt with Geralt. The evolution of their relationship from yesterday to today somehow felt… consequential, like a firm demarcation between chapters of her life.

Her sexual frustration-borne stormy mood hadn’t abated by the time she rejoined with Geralt at the door to their chambers, fully clothed with her weapons strapped to her back, but he merely gave an amused smirk when confronted with her scowl.

“Whatever this is about, it’d better be fucking good,” she grumbled as they walked out into the cool morning air and set off around the side of the inn. The village was deserted, and they had no trouble keeping a low profile as they rounded the corner and a house slightly bigger than the rest in town came into view a short ways off. Geralt was mid-knock at the door when it opened sharply, and Phoebe’s eyes widened in shock when it revealed the dark-haired man with the piercing blue eyes who had been watching her in the tavern the night before.

He beckoned them inside, and quickly shut the door behind them.

“I know you,” Phoebe said. “You were watching me last night in the tavern.” Geralt gave her a questioning look. “Before you came in,” she added.

“Aye, I was,” the man assented. “Name’s Renn, village alderman. I was watchin’ ye because I have a contract and a mystery for ye to solve.”

“One of your charming neighbors informed us that there were no contracts when we arrived yesterday. Blank noticeboard confirmed it,” said Geralt.

“That’s what they all want ye to think. And it’s why I asked ye to come secretly, at first light. Allow me to explain.” He seated himself on a bench at his wooden table, and they followed suit on the opposite side. Phoebe suppressed her smile when Geralt’s hand immediately found her thigh under the table.

“Couple months back, we was havin’ a real problem with a monster in the woods. Terrorized any villager that went in there to forage or hunt, and attacked a few. People started bein’ scared to set foot in there, which was serious, on account o’ that’s where we do most of our huntin’. Then, some sort of bein’ in the shape of a fox presented itself to one o’ the brave souls who _did_ go back in. Said it was the spirit of that forest, and it could get the monster to leave us alone if we made regular offerin’s of coin or resources. They all agreed to do it, ’n’ the attacks stopped. But I reckoned the whole thing was off from the start. Why now, after all these years? ’T'ain’t the first monster to trouble us, and no spirit ever stepped in afore. But none o’ them daft fools wanted to listen. I’ve been waitin’ for a witcher to pass through here ever since, so I can find out the truth of the matter once ’n’ for all.”

“This monster. What’s it look like?” Geralt asked.

“Never saw it or the spirit with me own eyes, but the villagers say it looks sor’ of like a skeleton made of sticks with a stag skull for a head.”

“A leshen,” Geralt muttered, looking over at Phoebe.

“Where do the villagers leave the offerings?” Phoebe queried.

“The spirit resides in a cave in the forest. If ye go straight south from here, ye can’t miss it.”

“Alright.” Geralt leaned his forearm on the table. “Before we go any further, let’s talk about the reward.”

“Aye. I’ve managed to scrape together a bit o’ coin over the weeks waitin’ for one of ye witchers to pass through. I can pay ye 600 crowns.”

Geralt and Phoebe both raised their eyebrows in unison. That was a significantly higher figure than they’d been used to hearing on their travels. “And if we investigate and it’s exactly what it looks like?”

“Then I’d like ye to kill the beast once ’n’ for all so we can stop wastin’ our crops’n’ resources on this so-called spirit.”

Geralt stood, and Phoebe followed. “Alright. We’ll go investigate that cave now, see if we can speak with this spirit.”

“Before ye go, I should warn ye,” Renn said, getting to his feet as well. Phoebe and Geralt turned. “The villagers’ll cause trouble once they figure out what yer up to. Nothin’ ye can’t handle, I’m sure, but be warned.”

“Thanks,” Geralt acknowledged. “We’ll let you know when we find anything out.”

They emerged into the brightening morning sunshine and set off to the south. Geralt kept close by her side, and she resisted the urge to slip her hand into his.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“Hard to say. Does seem weird, but I’ve seen weirder. Gonna reserve judgment till I know more. You?”

They crossed the tree line into the woods. “Seems really fishy to me. He said people were attacked, but he didn’t say they were killed. How many common peasants do you know of who could escape a leshen attack alive? And what’s a forest spirit going to do with gold and resources, anyway?”

“Not uncommon for spirits to ask for offerings.”

“Sure, and if we were dealing with a being that covets treasure, it would be different. Even if they were ritualistic or symbolic offerings it would be different, but gold and resources? I don’t know. Just doesn’t sound like a forest spirit to me.”

“Well, you’re more of an expert on forests than I am. Maybe you’ve got it right. Could be another type of spirit.”

Phoebe took in the surrounding trees as they continued through the verdure, brushing her gloved fingers across the bark. “This is a nice forest, actually,” she remarked. “Strong, with a good mix of old and new trees. And not crawling with monsters.” She slowed when they came to an enormous tree, the largest they’d encountered so far. “This one’s sick.”

“How can you tell?”

“Those cracks in the bark. A healthy tree has uniform bark. Large holes and cracks are a sign that the tree isn’t well. And the leaves are yellow, even though it’s spring.” Geralt hung back, watching her, as she veered towards the tree, pulling off a glove as she went, and ran her bare hand over the bark to examine the inner disease through her fingers. “It must be hundreds of years old, but it’s not beyond saving.” Closing her eyes, she pressed her palm against the ancient trunk and let the warm tingle of healing magic flow into the tree from the tips of the roots far below to the highest leaves. She felt an involuntary grin spread across her face, the warmth from the special dryad’s magic traveling up her arm and settling in her chest. When she opened her eyes, the cracks were gone and the foliage had turned a lush green. Geralt quirked an eyebrow when she dropped her hand and turned to beam at him.

“First time I’ve ever seen a smile like _that_ on your face,” he commented, stepping closer.

“It’s a dryad thing,” she grinned, shrugging. “Theres no better feeling than healing a tree. You get this deep sense of connectedness, and warmth, and satisfaction. I don’t even know how to describe it.” She pulled her glove back on and rejoined him, continuing on their path south.

“You ever miss the dryad’s life, living in the woods?”

“I wouldn’t say I miss actually living in the woods,” she replied thoughtfully. “But there’s just a deep bond to the forest that never goes away. I never feel so much like myself as when I’m in the forest, and if I’m away from it for too long I start to feel really wrong inside, like I’m not me, or like I’m about to lose my sanity. It was really bad when I was on the run with Ciri before arriving in Tir Nà Lia.” She glanced at him, feeling her cheeks heat slightly as she gave him a shy smile. “I think that’s one of the reasons I like you so much. You smell like the forest. It’s nice.”

He raised a disbelieving eyebrow at her, the corner of his mouth twitching. “The forest? That’s a new one. Yen always told me I smelled like death. Used to make me bathe before she’d even touch me.”

She shook her head firmly, clasping her hands behind her back as they walked. “Nope. Not death. Forest, and leather, and before you’ve bathed, adrenaline.”

He said nothing, but she could see that he was suppressing a smile. There was a short silence before he spoke again, his voice soft.

“Hey.” He slowed to a gentle stop. She turned to look at him and saw that his eyes were serious. “Speaking of you being on the run with Ciri. Been meaning to ask you, but didn’t know how… Back in Vizima, you said you were sexually abused by the Rats. That true?”

She felt an unpleasant lurch in her stomach at the memories. “Yeah.” She shook her head and sighed, the old, poisonous feelings surging up her throat like vomit, and she almost told Geralt she didn’t want to talk about it. She’d never spoken about it in detail to anyone, not even Avallac’h. But then she looked over and found him watching her intently, his brow furrowed a little with concern. She thought of how safe she’d felt this morning, waking up in his arms. _He cares,_ she reassured herself. _You can open up._ She turned to keep walking while she talked. For some reason, the thought of standing in place while talking about this seemed unbearable. Geralt fell in beside her again, and she took a deep breath, steeling herself.

“That time was the closest I’ve ever come to hating Ciri. I resented her so much, because after a while it was like she forgot the circumstances of us being there with those monsters in the first place. She joined them in earnest, and I felt betrayed, because at that point what started out as abuse turned into a romantic relationship, for her. I think to this day, she still hasn’t fully grasped how fucked up that situation was, because she fell in love with Mistle. But for me, it stayed exactly as it had been from the beginning: being raped regularly and held prisoner by a bunch of soulless beasts, and not being able to leave because I knew if I left Ciri behind I’d never forgive myself.” She gave a disgusted scoff. “I would lie awake at night with Kayleigh wrapped around me, filled with bitterness, thinking about how if I’d never met Ciri, I could’ve just found another sorceress to give me back my memory and I would’ve been home with my parents by then.”

“Out of curiosity, why didn’t you fight? You were trained in combat already by then.”

“My weapons had been taken from me long before that point, but even if I’d had them, I don’t know that I would’ve been able to fight. I’d been away from the forest for months by that time, and I was feeling completely lost and disconnected from who I was. And by the time they trusted us enough to give us weapons, I was just broken. I had come to accept that this was my life now, and there was no point in fighting it. I did what they told me to do, killed when they asked me to, and let Kayleigh use my body night after night.”

Geralt sighed through his nose, shaking his head as he gently grasped her arm and turned her to face him. He cupped her face firmly, forcing her to look up into his eyes, and even through his gauntlets she felt the warmth of his hands. “Should’ve never had to go through that. Can’t imagine what it must’ve been like, feeling that helpless.”

“I’m glad you can’t. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.” She thought she would feel traumatized by talking about that wretched time in her life, but on the contrary, she felt lighter, as if a weight had been lifted off her chest. It felt good to not be carrying the memories alone anymore. She smiled softly up at him to let him know she was fine, and he released her.

They walked for several moments in silence, until the trees suddenly thinned and they came to a hillside with a cave punched into it. Both Phoebe and Geralt stopped short in confusion.

“That seem kinda close to the edge of the woods to you?” Geralt asked.

“Yeah, for a spirit dwelling. I thought we would be walking for hours before reaching it.” She tugged off her glove. “I’m going to try and see if there’s anything in there.” She approached the nearest tree and let her consciousness flow, but felt nothing outside of the normal pitter-patter of small woodland creatures. She drew back into herself. “Nothing. Maybe the roots don’t penetrate the cave.”

“We should be ready just in case,” Geralt said, drawing his silver sword. Phoebe followed suit, and they moved cautiously forward into the darkness. She was glad for her enhanced vision as they edged through a narrow passageway, which eventually opened into a spacious cavern. Geralt found a torch laying on the ground and lit it.

The cavern was filled with wares of all kinds: fabrics, crops, leatherworks, tableware, furniture, and chests that she could only assume were filled with coin. But there was no sign of the spirit anywhere. It smelled dank inside, but there was no trace of the foul stench that usually denoted monsters, either.

“Even with my witcher senses, I can’t get a clear read on this place,” Geralt remarked. “Too many smells melded into one, and the tracks are just human and fox.”

“Maybe we should focus on other things for now. The spirit might be here if we come back later.”

He grunted his assent. They picked their way back through the darkness to the cave entrance, Phoebe shielding her eyes as they adjusted painfully to the comparative brightness outside.

She looked over at Geralt as they made the trek back through the trees towards the village. “What do you want to do in the meantime?”

“Could see if we can talk to some villagers. Won’t be easy, though.”

“We’ll have to Axii them.”

He hummed in agreement.

When they broke through the tree-line, she felt him eyeing her, and raised her eyebrows at him in question, stopping. “What?”

“Thanks for telling me all that, back there.”

She studied him. “I’ve never told anyone before,” she said matter-of-factly. “But for some reason, I trust you, Geralt of Rivia.”

“Means a lot to me.”

She smiled at him, her heart swelling, and they resumed their walk. But her smile quickly turned into an irritated scowl when they reached the village gates to find what looked to be the entire village gathered in the town square, seemingly in wait for them. They looked agitated and ireful, more like a mob than just a crowd, with many villagers carrying scythes and pitchforks as makeshift weapons. Phoebe snorted and rolled her eyes. _You idiots will need much more than that if you plan to get through us._

Her jaw clenched when she saw the same bastard who insulted Geralt the night before, standing at the front and glaring right at her as they approached. She was satisfied, however, to see his mangled nose, crooked and mottled with black and blue thanks to her well-landed punch. _Give me a reason,_ she thought as she sneered venomously at him. _I’m begging you._

She tapped the side of her own nose lightly with her finger. “Looks painful,” she said with mock concern.

The insect stepped forward, his face growing red with anger. “Told you freaks yesterday that we don’t want your filth here,” he spat. “But ye seem hell bent on stickin’ yer noses where they don’t belong. Now, we’ll all just hafta teach you a lesson, eh?” He turned towards his compatriots, who cheered in response. The man smirked cruelly, directing his gaze towards Geralt now. “We’ll start with your little whore. Have some fun with ‘er while we make you watch. Then we’ll put you down like the beast that you are.”

“Thank you,” Phoebe said genially, smiling at him. “I was just silently wishing for you to give me a reason, only a moment ago, and it’s like you heard my thoughts.” She turned her head slightly towards Geralt. “Be ready to catch me,” she muttered. She felt him look sharply at her, but didn’t wait for his reaction as she stepped forward.

 _Please, let me have the stamina for this,_ she prayed. Then she gathered all the magic and anger she could muster into her hands, and moved her fingers to cast the most powerful Axii she’d ever attempted. Immediately, all twenty-five-odd pairs of eyes in front of her turned glassy and vacant. The pressure in her head from the effort of sustaining the sign was hard to bear, but she didn’t let it show.

“Drop your weapons,” she commanded smoothly. Almost simultaneously, they all opened their hands and let their pitchforks and scythes fall to their feet. “None of you take issue with the witcher’s and my presence here, and you all support the alderman’s decision to hire us to investigate the spirit in your forest.You will give us help and information when asked, and you will allow us to conduct our business without trouble or interference. Is that clear?” She grit her teeth and took a subtle deep breath as her strength began to wane in earnest.

All the voices blended into one dull drone. “Yes.”

“You may go.” The crowd began to disperse. “Except you,” she addressed the wretched man, who turned back to face her, his eyes still blank. “What’s your name?”

“Davy.”

“On your knees, Davy.” He obeyed, sinking clumsily to his knees, his eyes still staring ahead at nothing in particular. “Now dig.”

“Dig…” An undertone of confusion colored his voice.

“With your hands, into the earth. Now.” He began to paw like a dog through the soil, still damp from the morning’s dew. She waited until he was past the point where he’d find any stones or pebbles. “Take a handful.” He scooped a generous amount of soil into one hand and held it dumbly out in front of him. Phoebe could see at least one slimy worm wriggling in it. The sight made her slightly queasy as she weakened more and more, but she ignored it. _I have to finish this._

“It seems like filth is the only thing that comes out of your mouth. Only fitting that it go in your mouth, too, don’t you think? Eat it.”

He slowly brought his hand to his mouth, and began to eat the soil out of his palm. Phoebe’s knees and thighs were now trembling with the effort to keep the sign active, her hands felt boneless and shaky, and she was growing short of breath. She was sure she’d lose consciousness after this, but she didn’t care. It was worth it to see this vile man punished. She stared down at him in satisfaction as he slurped up every last bit of earth from his hand, including the worms. “You will never, ever insult my companion, me, or any other witcher again.”

“…Yes… never again…” he trailed.

“Now get out of my sight,” she hissed, just as her vision started to blur.

She forced herself to hold it together until he had walked away, and then she let go. Her knees instantly buckled, her entire body going limp at once, but she was caught around the waist by Geralt, who hauled her up into his arms bridal-style and set off towards the inn with long, swift strides. She let her head loll against his shoulder as she strained to keep her eyes open. Geralt was looking down at her with a small smile on his lips.

“Incredible,” he growled, shaking his head reverently. “Never seen anything like it. Truly.”

“Thanks,” she smiled weakly. “Need… Sleep a little…”

“I know.”

She tried to hang on to consciousness as Geralt shifted her slightly in his arms to open the door to their chambers, moving across the parlor to sit at the table with her sideways on his lap. She let her eyes fall closed and her head rest in the crook of his neck as he deftly unbuckled her back scabbard with one hand, maneuvered it off her body, and set it on the table. Then, he gently grasped each of her limp arms in turn and tugged her gloves off. Finally, he lifted her again, setting her gently on her side on the sofa. He began to unlace her boots.

“’S'okay, you can leave them,” she slurred.

“You sure?”

She nodded slightly, and heard the soft squeak of the leather on his armor as he squatted down next to her. “Listen, now that you did us that huge favor, I’m gonna go talk to some of the villagers while you rest, see what I can dig up. I’ll leave the key here in case you wake up before I come back.”

“Mhmm,” was all she managed before she couldn’t hold the darkness at bay any longer. She thought she felt his warm, dry hand on her cheek, but she couldn’t be sure as she let herself be swept away.

~

Tarcedal needed to come up with a plan. He paced back and forth across the cave on his short, stubby legs, running agitatedly through all the scenarios available to him going forward. A rustling sounded in the passageway, but he didn’t panic, recognizing the ungainly footfalls to be Bertrand’s.

Bertrand paused in the entryway when he saw Tarcedal’s grim expression. “What happened?”

“The girl,” he replied broodingly. “She’s much more powerful than we gave her credit for. She’ll have to be dealt with before we can even touch Geralt.”

It was bad enough that the witcher had shown up in the first place; still, he had trusted his loyal followers in the village to handle the situation. But he had underestimated the girl, and now, thanks to her, he couldn’t count on a single one of his villagers. He had been there watching, disguised as a stray cat, when she’d wiped all of their minds at once. As much as he recoiled from the idea of violence, he and Bertrand would have to take matters into their own hands to put a stop to all this now, before things got any more out of control. They had put too much work into this plan to let it be ruined by anyone, witcher or not.

Bertrand gave an exasperated groan. “As soon as we finally settle somewhere. Why couldn’t they just leave us be? It ain’t as if we’ve killed anyone.”

“It’s the damn alderman’s fault. He’s always been suspicious. Never once brought an offering, either. He’s the one who hired them, I’m sure of it.” He sank down into a chair and rested his chin on his fist, falling silent as he considered their options. The witcher and his girl were separated right now; he had seen him carry her into their chambers and then leave on his own afterwards. If they were to act, now was the time, when she was weakened and unprotected. They wouldn’t even necessarily need to hurt her; just send her on a different track until they dealt with Geralt.

“Alright,” he said, meeting Bertrand’s eyes. “I think I know what to do.”

~

Geralt was surprised to see Phoebe walking towards him as he sat in the tavern, devouring a lunch of leftover stew and bread before continuing his villager interviews. He thought she would be sleeping for much longer than just two hours, considering she’d slept longer than that even after they’d fought the royal wyvern on their way to Vizima, and that had been a much less taxing use of magic than what she’d done today. But here she was, looking fresh and lively as she settled on the bench across from him with an almost strangely broad smile.

“Didn’t expect to see you up so soon. You alright?” He pushed his bowl of stew towards her and offered her his spoon, then signaled to the barmaid for an additional one. She kept smiling that same odd, wooden smile as she took a bite, but aside from a slight raising of his brows, Geralt ignored it.

“I’m fine. Did you find out anything interesting?”

The barmaid laid a fresh spoon on the table as she passed, and Geralt picked it up, digging into their shared bowl. “Nothing probative. Just more details added to what we already knew. Villagers give offerings on Sundays. The spirit apparently forbids them from coming any other day. That seem normal to you for a forest spirit?”

She blinked at him oddly, an expression almost akin to confusion crossing briefly over her face, but it was gone so quickly that he wondered if he’d imagined it. She dropped her eyes back down to the stew between them, picking at it with her spoon. “Um, I’m not sure. It could be. Sunday’s a pretty common day of worship.”

“Hmm,” he agreed, ripping off a hunk of bread.

“Enough time has probably passed now for us to go back to the cave,” she suggested, meeting his eyes. “Maybe the spirit will be there, and we can question it.”

“Think you’re right. Had a few more villagers to talk to, but I don’t think they’ll say anything different than the rest. We can go after we’re done here. You want your own bowl? You must be hungry.”

“Oh, no, I’m fine,” she said a bit too quickly, her eyes darting towards the door, and he paused mid-chew, brow furrowed.

“You in a hurry?”

She smiled deviously, and he jumped slightly when he felt her foot sliding up the inside of his leg under the table. “I just, um… would like to get this over with as quickly as possible so we can move on to… other things.”

His blood rushed south, and he hastily reached down to grasp her ankle before her foot could travel any higher. “Fair enough,” he growled, and she pulled her foot back with a satisfied smirk.

When the bowl of stew between them was empty and its accompanying bread gone, the two companions stood, making their way to the exit. Geralt inclined his head at the innkeep in farewell as he held the door open for Phoebe to pass through, and then they were off, trekking south towards the spirit’s cave for the second time that day.

“So, why _did_ you sleep for such a short time?” Geralt asked as they crossed into the forest. “Thought you’d be out for at least four hours, but you were barely asleep for two.”

“Uh, I don’t know,” she said lightly. “I guess I was better rested going into it this time.”

He felt some consternation over that, considering they’d barely slept the night before thanks to their drunkenness and subsequent _activities._ He had a weird feeling about Phoebe right now; there was something off about the way she was acting, but he couldn’t put his finger on what exactly it was or what could be causing it. He figured maybe she was just feeling a bit out of it after her show of power earlier, so he pushed down his misgivings. But the feeling of wrongness in his gut became harder and harder to ignore as their walk through the forest drew on in tense silence, and by the time they reached the cave he was on high alert, though for what, he still wasn’t sure.

His suspicions intensified further when Phoebe walked right into the cave entrance without drawing her sword or even checking for movement through the trees first. _Never seen her do something like that before,_ he thought, narrowinghis eyes at her back as he followed her into the narrow passageway, and wrapping a defensive hand around the hilt of his steel. _Phoebe’s brave, but not uncautious._ Still, he said nothing, just watched her closely as the passageway opened into the spacious cavern and he lit the nearby torches with Igni.

The cave was empty once again, but Geralt found himself completely unconcerned about that as Phoebe came to a halt in the middle of it and slowly looked around.

“I guess we missed it again,” she said dully, her back still to him.

“You don’t seem very surprised by that,” he replied pointedly.

She turned to face him, eyebrows furrowed in poorly-feigned confusion. “What do you mean?” she asked innocently.

But before he could answer, he heard footsteps in the passage behind him. He whirled around, drawing his silver sword, and froze when an imposing figure with white hair appeared in the opening to the cavern.

An imposing figure that looked identical to himself.

“A doppler,” he spat, and turned back to look at Phoebe, only to find that she was gone, and in her place stood another perfect replica of himself. “It all makes sense now. One of you disguised yourself as the leshen, while the other posed as a spirit. These villagers didn’t know any better, so you took the opportunity to milk them for all they were worth.”

The clone of himself previously known as Phoebe only smiled faintly at him, and then realization dawned on him with a sickening sense of foreboding.

“Where is she?” he demanded roughly, suddenly feeling strangled with worry.

“Long gone,” smirked the Geralt clone who had appeared in the opening.

Geralt’s stomach dropped sharply, but he forced himself not to consider what those two words could mean. He had to keep a cool head. He was in a very precarious situation right now; dopplers usually weren’t known to be violent creatures, but he’d seen them act out when backed into a corner, and he was threatening a very lucrative and carefully-planned arrangement for these two. The fact that they had both apparently planned to transform into copies of himself told him that they wanted to give themselves an edge in a fight by having strength and abilities equal to his own. No matter where or how badly hurt Phoebe was right now, he would be no use to her if he lost this fight. And up against two Geralts, the odds weren’t exactly stacked in his favor.

He grit his teeth with determination, lowering into a defensive stance and tightening his grip on his sword.

 _Hang in there, Phoebe,_ he prayed. _Wherever you are, just hang in there._

~

_4 Hours Earlier_

She could’ve sworn she’d felt a gentle hand caressing her hair, but when she opened her bleary eyes, Geralt was sitting a distance away from her in the armchair by the fireplace. _Must’ve imagined it,_ she thought with a groan as she stretched deeply. Geralt looked up at the sound.

“Hi,” she smiled tiredly.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Still tired, actually. I thought I’d sleep for longer. Did you wake me up? I thought I felt someone touching me.”

“No,” he said neutrally, shaking his head.

It struck her as an oddly short response, but she was too groggy to dwell on it. “Did you find anything out?”

“Not much, but one woman did say she’s seen the spirit in another spot in the forest a few times. Thought we should check it out. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“Sure,” she agreed, pushing herself upright and rubbing her eyes with her thumb and forefinger. “Let me just get my gear back on.”

With great effort, she dragged herself to her feet and sluggishly moved about the room, pulling on and fastening her scabbard, then donning her gloves.

“Ready?” Geralt asked, standing and moving towards the door.

She grabbed the key to their chambers off the table and followed. “Let’s go.”

She was surprised when Geralt led the way into the woods to the north. “Are you sure this is the right way?” she asked, her brow furrowing in confusion. It seemed odd for a spirit to be seen more than once in a spot so far out of its usual zone.

“According to the villager. Why?”

“Nothing, just curious.” They walked for some time in silence, Geralt staying up in front as he led the way deeper into the woods. “So, they really didn’t tell you anything useful other than this?”

He didn’t look back at her when he spoke. “Nothing we didn’t already know.”

“How many did you talk to?”

“All of them.”

“Huh. That was fast.”

“Well, they didn’t offer up much resistance after your little magic trick.”

They fell silent once more, and Phoebe couldn’t escape the awkward, anxious feeling growing in her chest. Why was Geralt being so quiet? Had something happened? Was he regretting what happened last night? She felt a pang in her chest at the thought, and almost asked him outright, but decided to bite her tongue. He hadn’t given her any reason to think that was the case. For all she knew, he might just be tired. They had barely slept the night before, after all.

After over an hour of trudging through the dense vegetation in silence, they reached a large clearing. Geralt slowed to a halt and looked around. “This is the place.”

“I don’t see anything,” she commented.

“Let’s look around, anyway. I’ll take this side, you take that side.” He moved back into the woods a few feet beyond the tree line and began to make his way slowly around the edge of the clearing. Phoebe turned around and followed suit on her side.

She pulled her glove off and touched the nearest tree, deciding to check the area for movement the easy way. As she allowed her consciousness to flow, she felt nothing save for the normal vibrations of the forest and its wildlife, and Geralt’s footfalls as he reemerged into the clearing and moved towards her.

“I don’t feel anything anywhere near here,” she sighed, keeping her eyes closed as she continued to search. Geralt gave no answer, but she felt his feet come to rest a short distance behind her. “Did you find anything?”

Silence. _What the fuck is his deal?_

She dropped her hand and opened her eyes, turning to face him. “Is everything alri-”

But she never got a chance to finish her sentence, because no sooner had she turned around than her vision was filled by Geralt’s gauntleted hand, wrapped around a large rock and flying towards her face.

Then she felt the crushing impact on her temple, and all was black.

She felt pure disorientation some time later when she came to, followed swiftly by unconscionable pain exploding through her skull. She immediately rolled over and retched violently into the grass, sputtering and coughing as she strangled herself on her own bile.

Once she was able to breathe again, she slowly pushed herself up onto her knees, swallowing down another wave of nausea as the trees spun around her. The golden light filtering down through the leaves told her it was late afternoon. _Where am I?_ she wondered sluggishly, gingerly raising a hand to touch the dried blood encrusting the left side of her face. _How did I get here?_

She looked around, but still felt bewildered as she took in the deserted clearing, until her eyes fell on the large, blood-stained rock lying in the grass a short distance away, and it all rushed back. She saw Geralt’s fist around that rock, hurtling towards her, and remembered his strange behavior as he’d walked her out here. She pitched forward again, her stomach turning itself inside out as it tried to expel contents that weren’t there. The movement, combined with her pounding heartbeat throbbing up into her head, caused her wound to reopen again, and blood was now flowing freely down the side of her face to her neck.

 _Need to get back to town,_ she thought dimly as she struggled to her feet and teetered towards a nearby tree. She wasn’t lucid enough yet to remember which way they’d entered the clearing, so she checked for the direction of town through the trees, collapsing against the trunk as she slapped her hand onto the bark. Then she staggered out of the clearing towards the south. It was slow going at first, but her mind became clearer as she kept on, and soon she was able to force herself into a jog, though the pain of the bouncing in her head was agonizing. _Why would Geralt do this?_ she wondered, feeling sick again. _Was he under some sort of spell? Or did he want to get rid of me but didn’t know how? No, that doesn’t sound like him. But then why? And where is he now?_

She felt a surge of relief when she finally broke through the trees, pausing as she caught sight of the village up ahead before pushing herself back into a jog despite the throbbing pain. Blood was still seeping out of the wound on her temple, staining the upper left side of her bastian red as it ran down her neck to her chest. _I need to tend to this before I can do anything else,_ she thought as she came to the inn and wrenched open the tavern door. She stumbled to the bar and leaned her elbows heavily onto it, earning a shocked gasp from the barmaid at the sight of her.

“I need a damp rag and a ginger tonic, now,” she panted raggedly.

“Y-yes, miss,” the girl stuttered, hastily placing a tumbler onto the counter and pouring a yellow-green tinted liquid into it from a corked glass bottle. “I’ll just be a second with the rag,” she added before scuttling out of sight.

Phoebe emptied the tumbler of tonic into her mouth in one go, swishing it around thoroughly and appreciating the presence of mint mixed into it before swallowing. Within a matter of seconds, the nausea in her stomach had calmed, making her feel that much more able to focus as she tried to figure out what the hell her next move should be. She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths, wishing she’d had the presence of mind to gather some herbs for a painkilling potion while she’d been in the forest.

“That didn’t take long. What the devil happened to you?” came the innkeep’s voice, and she opened her eyes to see that he’d appeared on the other side of the counter.

“What d’you mean?” she asked with mild puzzlement.

“Well I only just saw ye, not an hour ago,” he explained as if it were obvious. “You two have a lover’s quarrel?”

“What are you talking about? I haven’t seen you today.” She furrowed her brow with confusion in earnest now.

“Blow to yer head must’a been harder than you thought, miss,” he replied, raising his eyebrows at her. “You was eatin’ with your man just at that table there.” He pointed to a table against the far wall.

“You must be mistaken,” she shook her head. “I haven’t even been in here today.”

“Not mistaken,” he said stubbornly. “The two of you’s ain’t easy to miss, and besides, the witcher nodded goodbye when ye left.”

Phoebe’s heart clenched with panic as realization began to dawn on her. She stood bolt upright, gripping the edge of the counter as if her life depended on it. “And you’re absolutely certain he was with me?”

“Well, aye.” The inkeep was looking at her warily now, as if he were worried that at any moment she might descend into a fit of insanity. “Who else would ‘e be with?”

Without another word, she turned on her heel and sprinted out of the tavern in the direction of the stable, uncaring of the blood still oozing from the gash in her head.

 _Dopplers,_ she thought frantically as she careened into the stable and snatched Rabbit’s bridle off its hook. _It’s the only explanation that makes sense. There was never a monster or a spirit. It was dopplers all along, creating this whole situation to extort resources from the villagers._ She pulled the bridle onto Rabbit’s head with trembling fingers and did up the buckles as quickly as possible. _There was one with each of us today, and I was probably left out there in the middle of nowhere so that I’d be out of the way. That means they’re probably both with Geralt at the cave!_

She vaulted onto Rabbit’s back, forgoing her saddle. _“Run!”_ she cried in Elder Speech, and he surged forward, bolting out of the stable at full-tilt. The forest whipped by as she guided him through the trees towards the cave, praying that they weren’t too late. She didn’t even notice the pain in her head anymore, so consumed was she by her own adrenaline and panic.

With Rabbit’s size and speed, they reached the cave in less than half the time it had taken her and Geralt to walk there that morning. She soothed him to a halt a little ways away from the entrance, dismounting silently and continuing on foot. She removed her glove to check the interior of the cave through the trees, and sensed three pairs of feet moving frantically over the ground. _They’re fighting,_ she realized.

She edged towards the cave opening, knees bent into a defensive stance, and slowly drew her sword as she crept inside. The sounds of grunting, magic, and steel hitting steel reached her ears as she moved down the passageway, and the glowing orange light of the torches inside the cavern cast deep, flickering shadows on the surrounding rock. When she finally reached the cavern opening, she stopped short at the sight in front of her.

Three Geralts.

Three identical Geralts, only it was clear which one was the _real_ Geralt, because two of them were clearly working together against the third. The real Geralt looked exhausted; an angry-looking purple bruise was forming on one of his cheekbones, and the leather on his armor was singed. Phoebe silently slipped her sword back into its sheath and drew her bow instead, notching an arrow in it as she carefully kept track of the three witchers. She was still out of sight where she was standing in the passageway, and if she struck at the right moment, she’d be able to take out at least one doppler with an arrow before being noticed.

Her hand was forced, though, when one of the clones pummeled Geralt with an Aard, sending him stumbling, and the other seized the opportunity to jump on him, forcing him to his knees and wrapping an arm around his throat. The doppler still on his feet stepped forward menacingly, standing over Geralt and lifting his sword to deliver the finishing blow.

Phoebe didn’t hesitate. She leapt out from her hiding place and loosed her arrow on pure instinct, sending it straight into the standing clone’s head. Geralt seized the moment of distraction to reach back and grasp the remaining clone behind the neck, flipping him over his shoulder and flat onto his back before impaling him through the chest with his sword. He staggered to his feet, and they stared at each other for a moment as they tried to catch their breath.

Then he unbuckled his gauntlets, tossed them carelessly to the ground without taking his eyes off hers, and came at her.

His irises shone fiercely golden in the torchlight as he crossed the expanse of the cavern in only a few swift strides, caught her face firmly in both of his hands, and crashed his mouth against hers. He devoured her, his tongue already cajoling her mouth open, his hands sliding firmly down her neck and over her breasts to her waist, where he pulled her flush against him. The reservoir of unreleased pressure in her core, which had lain dormant all day, exploded back to life, and she arched her body against his, moaning loudly as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

He guided her backwards, making quick work of unlacing her breeches and smallclothes along the way, until she felt the edge of a shallow cabinet, pushed up against the cavern wall, on her lower back. She gasped softly when Geralt lifted her onto it, then immediately yanked her breeches and smallclothes down her legs to the top of her boots. He seemed to be in a frenzy, not pausing for even a second as he moved on to her bastian, untying its laces and the laces of her bodice underneath before tugging them sharply down her shoulders in unison, freeing both breasts.

She curled her fists mercilessly into his hair as he descended on her nipple with his wicked mouth and slipped his fingers between her drenched lower lips at the same exact moment. “Oh, _gods,”_ she cried out desperately, her thighs quivering at the delicious contact.

He anchored her back against the wall with a hand at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, his palm pressed into her collarbone and his thumb resting across the base of her throat. She drew her shoulder blades together, pushing her chest more firmly into his mouth and twitching hard when he caught her nipple between his teeth and the jolt went straight down to her dripping center. He didn’t let go as he rubbed his fingers slowly back and forth along her slick folds, pausing to swirl around her overly-sensitive nub and punctuating the motion with a sharp tug of his teeth on her now-reddening nipple. She jerked violently on a sharp gasp, her channel clenching on itself as a fresh flood of wetness gushed from her core.

He released her puckered, swollen flesh, smoothing it over with the flat of his tongue, and she let out a trembling cry as he finally, finally pushed two fingers into her aching core. He began to kiss his way up her neck, uncaring of the dried blood coating it, and she tasted the metal of it when he slanted his mouth back over hers. Kissing her languidly, their tongues sliding against each other, he began to slowly pump his fingers in and out of her tight channel, stretching her deliciously, stroking her inner walls with each thrust and sending tremors of ecstasy throughout her entire body.

The heel of his hand pressed against her bundle of nerves and it was as if a fuse had been lit; she suddenly felt that telltale animalistic desperation, that compulsive need for more friction that always signaled an impending orgasm. She untangled one hand frantically from his hair to brace flat on the cabinet for leverage as she lifted her hips, rocking them against him in time with his thrusts, her breathing growing heavy as he continued to plunder her mouth with his tongue. The hand at her clavicle inched up to wrap just firmly enough around the front of her throat and she released a ragged, frustrated moan into his mouth, the undulation of her hips growing steadily more fevered as he curled his fingers up into that divine, elusive spot inside her.

She was almost there, her inner muscles growing tight with her imminent release, and she had to break their kiss just to get enough air as her skin burned with unbearable heat and her pulse began to roar in her ears. He stared unblinkingly down into her eyes through saucer-like black pupils as she increased the pace of her grinding hips, teetering on the edge. He kept up with her, pressing his fingers harder up into that extra-sensitive flesh in her core.

But it was hearing his voice when he spoke, for the first time since she’d walked in, that proved to be her undoing.

“Keep your eyes open,” he growled roughly. “Wanna see them burn brighter than the fucking sun for me when you come.”

With her entire soul, she obeyed. Her inner walls clenched so forcefully that her scream turned into a sob, her toes curled in her boots and went numb, and her muscles went so rigid she thought her whole body might break apart. Still, she kept her eyes locked on his, her fist so tight in his hair that she was surprised she didn’t rip it out, riding the wave of her orgasm until her core fluttered only feebly around his fingers and her body went limp. She let her head fall back against the rough stone wall and gazed up at him through heavy lids.

He released her throat to cup her cheek gently now, leaning in to give her a slow, deep kiss, and she finally let her eyes fall closed under the drugging touch of his perfect mouth. Untangling her rather limp fist from his hair, she ran both hands blindly over his face and neck. He let his forehead rest against hers when they broke the kiss, his fingers still buried soundly inside her.

“Think I’m getting a little too used to you saving my ass,” he rasped quietly.

She let her hands rest on either side of his neck, cupped loosely against his smooth skin. “Good. I want you to be used to it.” Her voice was hoarse and weak.

“Couldn’t stay on my game during that fight. I was too scared that something horrible’d happened to you.”

“So was I.”

“Seeing you standing there with your bow cocked after shooting that bastard… Can’t remember the last time I was that happy to see someone.”

She took his face in her hands and pulled his mouth to hers again.

“So what now?” she murmured as she broke the kiss. “Collect the reward?”

“Tomorrow,” he growled. “This-” she gasped at the stimulation of her hypersensitive flesh as he slowly pumped his fingers one time inside her- “is the only place I want to be until then.”

She grinned at him. “Good answer.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: this chapter is basically all smut. don’t say i didn’t warn you.

He couldn’t stop staring as she righted her clothing, lacing her bodice and shirt back up and shuffling down off the cabinet to pull her breeches back on. He was enraptured and ravenous; all he wanted to do, all he cared about, was drowning in her as deeply and as often as she would let him. The feel of her around his fingers had been more than he’d ever imagined. She was small and lithe everywhere- hands, feet, wrists, thighs, waist, neck- and her sweet little cunt was no exception, ultra-tight, hot, and silky. It drove him wild to imagine how exquisite she would feel crashing over the edge like that around his cock instead of his fingers, and now the only force driving him forward was the need to solidify this bond between them in the deepest way possible. Anything else felt like an utter waste of time.

He hadn’t even taken a second to notice her body or clothing, so focused had he been on making her come apart at the seams for him. That was alright with him; he’d rather admire her body for the first time with nothing on it anyway, but he noticed now that the upper left portion of her shirt was stained solid with dried blood, and the side of her face was also positively caked in it.

“That’s a lot of blood,” he remarked seriously. “Your head must be killing you.”

“It’s not great,” she admitted with a rueful smile. “But I don’t have any herbs for a painkilling potion right now, and I’m not much in the mood to go searching for some.”

“I’ve got painkilling potion. I’ll give you some when we get back,” he offered, crossing back to where he had dropped his gauntlets and pulling them back on. She smiled gratefully at him as she finished lacing up her breeches. “What’d he hit you with, anyway?”

“A big rock.”

He winced. “Fucker.”

“What should we do with them?” she asked, eyeing the two lifeless bodies sprawled on the ground.

He buckled the final buckle on his gauntlets and headed for the opening, grabbing her wrist as he passed by to drag her along with him. “Just leave them. We’ll tell the alderman where they are tomorrow.” He smiled to himself when she wiggled her arm backwards in his grasp until her small hand was nestled in his larger one.

When they stepped out of the mouth of the cave into the waning daylight, Phoebe whistled softly, her eyes scanning the trees. Almost instantly, Rabbit’s giant form emerged at a trot, wearing just his bridle. She hoisted herself lightly onto the stallion’s back, then looked at Geralt expectantly.

“You rode here without a saddle?” he asked as he mounted behind her and automatically pulled her against him with a hand on her stomach.

“Well, yeah. I was worried you were being tortured, or worse. Saddle was the last thing on my mind.” She urged Rabbit into a canter with a few clicks of her tongue.

“How’d you figure it out, anyway? I didn’t even put it together until they put it together for me.”

“When I came to after being knocked out by that rock, I was a complete mess. My head was bleeding pretty heavily and I was really ill. I managed to find my way to the tavern so that I could ask for a wet rag and a tonic for my stomach, and the innkeep told me he’d just seen me with you. That’s when I figured it out.”

“What do you mean, you ‘managed to find your way’? He didn’t attack you in our chambers?”

She shook her head. “He lured me out to the northern woods first, under the pretense of checking a lead. I felt like something was off, because he was super quiet and short with me, and that just isn’t like you, but I figured maybe you were just tired. Then he waited till we got nice and deep before bashing me over the head.”

“You mean, you thought I’d knocked you out with a rock, and when you woke up you didn’t automatically assume something was amiss? You know I’d never do that,” he groused, offended.

“Well, the thought fleetingly crossed my mind that maybe you were regretting what had happened between us and were just trying to get rid of me, but that only lasted about a second before I decided you must’ve been cursed or something.”

“I wanted to get rid of you, I’d’ve done it by now, believe me.”

“Good to know.” He heard the smile in her voice as she laid her hand over top of his on her stomach.

Darkness had fallen by the time they rode into the stable and dismounted. Geralt stood by feigning patience as Phoebe led Rabbit back inside his enormous stall and unbridled him with a kiss on his cheek. She gave him fresh water and a large bucket of oats to munch on before finally slipping out of his stall and turning to face Geralt with a cheeky grin.

“Don’t worry, I’m done.”

He raised his eyebrows. “What makes you think I’m worried?”

“I can feel the impatience radiating off of you in waves.”

He snorted, catching her around the waist with a hand just underneath her breasts as she tried to brush past him out of the stable, and ducking down to press his mouth to her ear. “Can you blame me?” he growled.

She smirked, pressing the key to their chambers into his hand. “I’ll go order us a bath.”

“Don’t take too long.”

He stood watching her for a few seconds as she walked off towards the tavern, then crossed to their chambers and let himself in. He lit the fireplaces and all the candles, then removed his gauntlets and weapons and collected their respective bathing supplies to set them on the stool near the tub. He was rummaging through his saddlebag for his bottle of painkilling potion when the door opened and Phoebe came through it, standing aside for a barmaid carrying a large tray laden with steaming bread, cured meat, cheese, fruit, and a bottle of wine to enter. Phoebe motioned for the girl to set the tray down at the end of the table in the parlor, then discarded her corset, weapons, and gloves near the door. She sat down at the head of the table and popped a grape into her mouth.

Geralt stopped her when she moved to pour wine into the two chalices on the tray. “Drink this first.” Sitting in the next chair, he uncorked the painkilling potion and poured its swirling blue contents into her cup. She eyed him gratefully as she drained it in one go, then filled both cups to the brim with Erveluce, moving from her seat to sit sideways on his lap as she handed him his cup. The side of her body was pressed against his front, and as he gazed down at her and recalled the way her irises had flared almost white-hot when she’d peaked for him earlier, he felt a strong surge of excitement for the night ahead. He curled an arm around her back, gripping the outside of her thigh possessively and itching for the moment where he’d finally see her completely bare before him.

“What should we toast to?” she asked, smiling coquettishly up at him.

“You,” he rasped. She raised her eyebrows at him. “You practically handled this contract by yourself. I was just your assistant.” He raised his cup. “So, to you. You make a damn good witcher.”

He brought his cup towards his mouth, but she stopped him, her small hand clamped over his knuckles. She was staring at him with wide eyes as she slowly pulled his cup to her lips, while bringing her cup to his. She paused just an inch from each of their mouths, giving him a chance to turn down the silent question hanging between them, the implicit promise that would be made to each other if they drank: _It’s you and me. Not just traveling companions, or allies in a common quest, or partners in combat. You, and me. Together._ He covered her hand with his own, pulled her cup to his mouth, and drank. And so did she.

She grinned at him as they lowered their cups, brushing her nose sweetly against his as she drew close. But before he could taste her wonderful lips, there was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” Phoebe called, her eyes still riveted on his own and pulsing softly. He couldn’t look away as he heard the door open, heard the shuffling footfalls burdened by heavy buckets of water, heard the satisfying splash of said water being poured into the tub again, and again, and again, until finally the door closed on those footfalls and all was quiet.

Wordlessly, Phoebe reached behind her head and untied the leather thong holding back the front sections of her hair, shaking the strands loose with her fingers. Then, with a small smirk, she slid off his lap, chalice in hand, and sashayed into the bedroom without a backwards glance.

Geralt remained in-place and took a deep, stabilizing breath. They hadn’t even done anything yet, and already he was hard as a rock and growing impatient. _Need to get a grip,_ he thought darkly, draining his wine in two long gulps and refilling his cup. _Otherwise this will be over before it even begins._

When he finally pushed himself to his feet and moved into the other room, Phoebe was already in the bath, much to his disappointment. Her face and neck were clean of blood, her hair slicked back from her face and swirling around her shoulders in the steaming water like smoke. She was pressed up against the edge of the tub closest to him, watching him unwaveringly as he began to unbuckle his spaulders, her pupils blown wide and amber irises glowing softly. She watched him closely as he discarded his armor piece by piece in a pile on the floor, until he was clad only in his linen braies. She kept her eyes fixed on his own as he slowly untied them, pushed them down his legs, and stepped out of them. Only when he was completely nude in front of her did her eyes begin to wander.

The previously dim luminescence behind the pools of amber seemed to burn brighter and brighter as they drifted slowly down from his face to his shoulders and chest, then to the rather rigid muscles of his stomach, and finally down to his manhood, which jutted proudly towards her and seemed to be filled with every last drop of blood in his body. She bit her lip as her eyes lingered there, and he almost growled at the sight. He let her ogle him for a few more seconds before moving towards the tub and climbing in across from her.

“Your turn,” he commanded. “Let me see you.”

“Patience, master witcher,” she replied smoothly, reaching over the side of the tub for her soap and lathering it in the water. It smelled delicate and delicious, like rose and citrus. She had a devious glint in her eye as she slowly began to rub the lather into her hair, starting at her scalp and working her way to the ends. He tried to eye her body through the rippling water, but with the suds floating all over the surface it was useless. _Fine, I’ll play along,_ he thought begrudgingly, picking up his own soap and sitting back against the wall of the tub as he watched her massage her scalp. He untied his hair and dunked his head underwater, then began to lather up his soap to wash the sweat and grime out of his own strands.

“Ah-ah-ah,” she scolded smugly. “No washing yet.”

He narrowed his eyes at her but sat back nonetheless, crossing his arms irritably over his chest, but she only smiled as she grabbed the wooden pitcher next to the tub and used it to douse her head with water, rinsing the soap out of her hair. With her long tresses clean and slicked back from her forehead once more, she lathered the soap up again, even more than she had before. Then, slowly, she lifted herself out of the water to her feet and perched on the edge of the tub against the wall. Geralt felt almost lightheaded with desire as he drank her in like a man dying of thirst. She paused her movements momentarily, resting her hands against the tub’s rim on either side of her hips and letting him devour her with his eyes.

Her dripping body was lean and defined, yet still smooth, no bone or muscle rippling her sun-kissed skin except for the delicate lines of her collarbone. Her breasts, not large enough to be pendulous but still full enough to cup, were round and symmetrical, the brownish-pink nipples puckered by the cool air and centered beautifully. His gaze drifted hungrily down the graceful dip in the center of her ribcage to her flat stomach, dimpled only by her oval bellybutton. He continued his visual exploration, lingering on her softly protruding hipbones for a second before moving on. He couldn’t help his visceral intake of breath when his eyes finally fell on the cleft between her thighs for the first time. Her beautiful cunt was close-trimmed and neat, the outer lips petite and delicate, and as he watched, she inched her thighs further apart for him, allowing him just a glimpse of the glistening dark pink inner folds.

“Beautiful,” he murmured roughly, surging through the water towards her before he could even think, but she lifted her foot, stopping him with her toes pressed into his chest. She slowly pushed him backwards until her leg was straight.

“What is this?” he growled, gripping her smooth calf with both hands.

“Revenge,” she smirked, “for making me wait this morning. Now sit back.”

“Never pegged you for the vindictive type.” He settled back against the edge with great reluctance.

“Maybe you’ll think twice next time you decide to tease me.” She continued to lather her soap until her hands were completely encased in foam. Then, slowly, she began to wash herself.

She started with her arms, spreading the lather up and down from wrists to shoulders. From there, she moved on to her chest, wrapping both hands around her neck for only a second before sliding them torturously down to her perfect breasts. She rubbed over them in a circular motion, covering them in foam, then cupped them from underneath, pushing them upwards until they slipped out from under her hands and bounced tightly back into place. Geralt groaned, his cock almost painfully hard and twitching as she repeated the motion, only this time instead of letting them bounce free from her hands, she held her breasts in place and began to rub at her nipples with her fingertips. She released a soft, breathy moan as she languidly pinched and pulled at them, and all the while her eyes remained fixed on him, boring into his own whenever he flicked his gaze up to meet them. With his heightened senses he could smell the spicy musk of her arousal mixing in with the clean, crisp scent of the soap.

It was taking every fiber of his being to keep himself in place, the desire to memorize her body with his hands, to bury himself inside her, to claim her as his own so strong that he nearly felt dizzy with it. His hands were balled into fists and shaking, his jaw clenched, every muscle in his abdomen tensed. He felt almost possessed; he didn’t think he’d ever felt such a visceral, primal need for someone, not even with Yennefer. He lifted his arms out of the water and spread them out to either side, gripping the rim of the tub so hard his knuckles turned ghostly white.

After toying with her nipples until they’d gone slightly red and swollen under her pinching fingers, she ran her sudsy hands up and down her stomach. He held his breath, desperate to see her move down to the next thing, to touch herself _there_ for him. She lifted one leg out of the water and braced her foot out to the side on the rim of the tub, spreading her thighs wide. Her folds parted slightly to allow him that tantalizing glimpse of alluring pink flesh again. But she wasn’t done torturing him. Instead of plunging her hands where he wanted to see them most, she leaned forward with an almost amused smile, lathering up the soap again and rubbing it over her propped leg. She began at the ankle and spread the foam up her calves and over her thighs, all the way up until her fingers just crested the edge of her cunt, and then back down.

Finally, she sat back, her entire body rubbed with fragrant lather. She pressed her upper back into the wall behind her, inadvertently pushing her breasts out in the process, and braced one hand on the edge of the tub behind her raised thigh. She was spread beautifully for him, her abdomen stretched tight, every inch of her visible to his ravenous eyes. Her black pupils nearly eclipsed the amber, consuming him as she slowly brought her free hand to her lovely slit. His breath caught in his throat when she parted her folds delicately for him with her index and middle finger, letting him see in earnest just how slick and pretty they were, her dark pink bud swollen with desire. She slid her lathered fingers along her folds, whimpering softly when she paused to swirl her fingertips lazily around her nub.

Hearing that perfect sound and drowning in the black of her eyes, Geralt’s last shred of control snapped. She allowed it this time as he crossed the tub in an instant, hooking his arms under her legs and tugging her down astride his lap in the water with a messy splash. He kissed her roughly, his hands immediately cupping her breasts, testing the weight and feel of them on his palms. They were a bit smaller than most of the other women he’d been with, but they were firm and smooth and just right in his hands, not unlike the rest of her body. She didn’t let him plunder her mouth nearly long enough before pushing back with her hands on his chest. She slid her hand down his arm to where he was still gripping his soap, and pulled it out of his grasp.

“Your turn,” she whispered, lathering it thickly and then reaching up to gently rub it into his hair. Shivers of pleasure ran down his back at the sensation of her nimble fingertips massaging his scalp. He found himself gripping her hips harder than he probably should, his cock resting heavily against her stomach, but she didn’t seem to mind, and he didn’t let go. Once she was done with his hair, she moved down to his neck and shoulders, rubbing the lather into them with circular strokes. He let his head fall back, closing his eyes and releasing a long, slow breath under the light pressure of her fingers into his sore muscles. She slipped her hands back up to his face and washed his beard, using her fingernails to lightly scrub it clean. It warmed him, being tended to like this. The uncomplicated tenderness of her actions was something he wasn’t accustomed to, and it had been a long time since he’d felt the pure, clean excitement of a new lover, unhindered by past baggage and unspoken pain.

He filled the discarded pitcher floating along the edge of the tub, and poured it over his hair and face without letting the soap run into his eyes. When he was free of soap, she pulled herself closer again, rubbing her nose into his neck and then slipping her hot tongue out to run the flat of it from the dip at the base of his throat up over his Adam’s apple. He groaned loudly, unable to stop himself from pushing his erection lightly against her abdomen. Too soon she was pulling away again, rotating them so that his back was to the wall and then dislodging her body from his completely.

She stood up out of the water, pulling her with him, and then guided him to sit on the ledge just as she herself had done only moments ago. She stepped towards him, standing with one leg on either side of one of his thighs, and he simply watched her, dumbstruck, as she began to wash the rest of him. She used the flat of her palms to rub soap over his arms, then moved to his chest and stomach, tracing each muscle with her fingertips as she went.

His heart nearly stopped when she slowly dropped to her knees between his legs in the water and placed a soft kiss on his thigh before lathering it, her burning amber orbs gazing devotedly up at him. She gave his other thigh the same treatment, and he was panting softly by the time her hands were slipping slowly up his legs towards his throbbing cock. She traced her fingertips along the place where his thighs met his groin, gaze still riveted on his own, before slowly sliding her hands towards each other until they met at the base of his cock. He sucked in a sharp, hissing breath when they both slid along his length, then wrapped around it, one in front of the other.

 _“Fuck,”_ he groaned through gritted teeth, one hand gripping the tub as hard as possible while the other anchored itself at the base of her neck, his palm covering her ear. Her hands were warm and slippery and tight around him as they slowly began to pump up and down, her thumb moving rhythmically over his sensitive head on every up stroke. Her gaze traveled over his face as it contorted involuntarily under the intensity of her ministrations, and he soon realized that she, too, was panting, her nipples red and jutting, her eyes black with arousal. _She’s getting off watching you get off,_ he realized, and if it was even possible, his cock hardened even further.

Phoebe abruptly released him, reaching blindly for the wooden pitcher and rinsing his lower half with water. When he was clean, she braced her hands on his thighs and leaned in, kissing the crease of his groin and then following her lips with her tongue. She kissed a path across the V-shaped area above his cock, which lay hotly against the side of her throat. Geralt’s heart was hammering wildly in his chest, every single muscle in his body tensed in anticipation as she drew back, her cheek sliding along the length of his cock as she went. When his head brushed across her lips, she parted them and slowly swiped her tongue over it.

“ _Ah,_ Phoebe-” he began in strangled protest, his hips jerking involuntarily, but before he could finish, she had enveloped his head in her warm, slippery mouth and was moving up and down the length of him at a slow, steady pace. On each down stroke, she took a little more of him into her mouth, until he could feel the back of her throat against his tip every time she enveloped him. Her eyes were wide and watering slightly, framed by her long lashes and blinking heatedly up at him. Geralt was lost, his entire being existing only for the soft suction of her mouth around him, the caress of her tongue along his length on every stroke.

He had both of his hands on her now, tangled in her hair on either side of her face, and his breathing was ragged with the effort of resisting the overwhelming urge to thrust into her wondrous mouth. What she was doing for him was the last thing he’d expected, and he didn’t want to hurt her or take advantage. But she seemed to sense his predicament, because she slipped her hands around him, planting them on his ass, and pulled him towards her face. Letting out a pained groan, he resisted at first, trying desperately to hang on to his self-control. But she was insistent, her glazed eyes looking encouragingly up at him as she dug her little nails into his ass, pulling him towards her again. He couldn’t say no twice.

He tightened his hold on her hair and began to slowly thrust into her mouth, unable to suppress his rhythmic groan every time his cock hit the back of her throat. He growled savagely at the sight of her pupils dilating even further, tears slipping from the corners of her eyes from the effort of keeping her throat relaxed around him this way, and he picked up the pace slightly in spite of himself. She rewarded him with a needy moan, which vibrated against his cock in her throat and and drew another ragged exclamation from him. He felt his sac beginning to tighten, the swelling pressure of his release mounting behind his navel, and he tried hard to keep himself in check, but Phoebe was having none of it. Her hands, which had been gripping his backside benignly for the last few minutes, now pressed into his flesh again, drawing him more firmly into her mouth with each thrust, and he grasped her face, trying to pull away from her mouth before it was too late.

“Phoebe,” he growled roughly, panting heavily as his vision began to tunnel and his sac tightened to its limit. “Phoebe, I’m gonna-”

But she didn’t let him go, instead moaning again around him, her eyes glazed over with lust as she continued to drive him into her mouth with her hands on his ass. He stilled his movements and hers with his hands in her hair, his cock twitching in her throat as he made a last desperate attempt to pull himself back, to give himself more time. Phoebe was glaring up at him, irises glowing brightly, her nails digging into his skin again.

Then she swallowed around him, the muscles in her throat contracting on his head, and animal instinct took over.

 _“Fuck,”_ he yelled for the second time, cupping under her jaw with one hand and behind her neck with the other as he thrust roughly into her throat five more times, before his entire body seized up in climax and he spilled into her mouth with a savage groan. She swallowed his seed as it came, the movement of her throat prolonging his release until he was positively shaking with it. He let her go immediately, but she lingered, continuing to gently caress him with her tongue until his cock stopped twitching and began to soften, her glistening eyes still fixed on his face. He ran his hands over her face and through her hair, staring foggily down at her with stunned adulation as she let him slip from her mouth and rested her head against his inner thigh. She released his ass and ran her hands over his stomach before letting them drop into the water.

“I’m in awe of you,” he rasped lowly. She smiled sweetly up at him as he caressed her cheek, wiping away the tears at the corner of her eye with his thumb. The need to hold her swelled up in his chest, and he shifted underneath her. Seeming to understand his intention, she pushed back towards the middle of the tub, allowing him room to slide back into the tepid water with her. He immediately caught her behind the knees under the surface and pulled her into his lap, molding her flush against him with his arms around her waist. He kissed her unhurriedly, tasting himself when she opened her mouth and slid her tongue against his.

Her eyes were still pulsing brightly when he pulled back. “Get me out of this bath,” she ordered huskily, running her fingers through his hair.

He wrapped her legs more firmly around his waist and stood, relishing the feeling of her still-slick folds pressed against the lower muscles of his abdomen. Stepping out of the bath, he set her gently on her feet and then grabbed the two towels he’d set next to the tub earlier. She squeezed the excess water out of her hair, then wrapped herself in the towel he handed her and crossed to her saddlebag on the other side of the room. As he toweled himself off, he watched her rummage around and pull out the same comb and glass bottle of oil she’d used yesterday, then toss them onto the bed as she began to dry herself off as well. She discarded her towel on a chair by the fireplace and moved to the edge of the bed, sitting down and pulling her hair over one shoulder in preparation to untangle it, which gave Geralt an idea.

He was going to return the tender attention she’d just given him, ten-fold if he had his way.

~

“Let me,” came Geralt’s voice at her ear, his hand stopping her own as she went to uncork her bottle of oil. She felt the hot skin of his chest on her back as he knelt behind her on the bed, his thighs coming to rest on either side of her hips.

She smiled up at him over her shoulder as she handed him the oil and comb, then closed her eyes, sighing in relaxation as he drew her hair behind her shoulders to hang down her back. She listened to the _pop_ of the cork being pulled out of the bottle, followed by soft glugging as Geralt poured some oil into his palm. Gradually, he worked the oil into her long tresses from ends to roots, then followed by gently working through the tangles with the comb. She shivered happily at the slightly ticklish sensation on her scalp as his fingers ran along her strands. When the comb’s teeth were able to travel the length of her hair without hitting a snag, he set the comb aside and poured more oil into his hands, rubbing them together and working the oil into the soft skin of her shoulders and back. Mimicking the doting treatment she’d just given him in the bath, he moisturized each of her arms in turn, rubbing the fragrant mixture from shoulder to wrist and back again, and then sliding his hands over the front of her shoulders to massage the oil into her upper chest. Her breath caught when his hands slid up along her collarbones to rub up and down her throat.

Replenishing his palms with the slippery substance, he traced his fingertips down her shoulder blades and under her arms, bringing them around to slowly cup her breasts. She let her head fall back against his shoulder with a soft hiss and he ducked to nibble at the delicate flesh under her jaw, rubbing his thumbs back and forth over her already over-sensitized nipples, which slipped around freely under his touch as he coated them with oil. The slick friction jolted straight down to her womanhood, and she immediately began to feel hot and breathless under his ministrations. It was madness, what he could do to her with just the simplest touch. He rolled her sensitive peaks between his fingers as he used his palms to push her breasts up, earning him a gasp as she arched into his hands. She groaned in protest when he moved on, smoothing his hands over her taut, trembling stomach and up her sides as he kissed his way down to lick at the juncture of her neck and shoulder.

He gave her one last peck on the neck before moving around to his knees on the floor in front of her. She leaned back on her hands, gazing down her body at him, panting shallowly with anticipation and pleasure as he took hold of one of her feet and began to work more oil into it, massaging the sole and then planting it on the front of his shoulder while he worked his way up the rest of her leg. She held her breath, willing his fingers towards her center, but he only dropped her foot back to the floor and moved on to the other one. Phoebe’s muscles were quivering with need, her hands fisted into the coverlet as he slowly massaged his hands up her other thigh. This time, when she spread her legs open further for him and bit her lip needily, he relented.

It took all her effort to keep herself quiet as he parted her outer folds gently with his thumbs, his eyes devouring her inner petals as if he’d never seen anything so beautiful. Her mouth dropped open as he tenderly kissed each inner thigh in turn. Then, finally, he pressed a third kiss to her swollen bud.

“Ah!” she cried, one hand flying to his head. He trailed his tongue along her slit, dipped it into her entrance, then lapped slowly at her bundle of nerves until she wanted to scream, before repeating the process. Phoebe was adrift on a turbulent sea of pleasure, sweat breaking out over her freshly-washed skin as she felt the first stirrings of telltale building pressure, tingling under her stomach. She tried to control her breathing, determined to have Geralt’s body fully fused with her own the next time she came, but he was playing her body like a well-tuned instrument and she was slipping away with every lap of his tongue, his hypnotizing golden eyes searing into her own as she melted like wax into his hands.

Geralt, for his part, had never been more sure that there was a heaven than he was right now. Delirious with the spectacular view of her body from down on his knees and the feeling of her silky folds on his tongue, he was only moments past the powerful orgasm Phoebe had given him, and already his cock was twitching back to life. She mewled for him needily, her hand pulling his face into her heat by his hair, and he loved it. Her musk was sweet and tangy and he delved his tongue as deep inside as it would go, hungry for more of her delicious nectar as his manhood began to fill with blood again in earnest.

“Geralt,” she whimpered as her thighs began to tremble on either side of his head, and he was sure he’d never heard anything so beautiful. “Geralt, stop.”

He paused his ministrations, looking up the length of her body to meet her flushed, panting gaze. “I don’t want to come like this,” she pleaded.

“How do you want to come?” he husked, moving his lips against her most sensitive spot as he spoke. She moaned loudly, her hips twitching.

“With you inside me.”

He lapped at her once, and she keened.

“Please,” she begged.

She was wrecked for him, her body stretched tight and undulating under his touch, her cheeks flushed prettily. He reared up to his feet, immediately leaning over her on the bed to catch her mouth in a punishing kiss. She shuffled backwards on the bed and he followed, unwilling to let their mouths part. When they reached the headboard she guided him to sit against it, then kneeled with one knee on either side of him, her hips hovering over his now fully erect cock. He sat up, running his hands all over her and extending his tongue to lave her nipple as he looked fiercely up into her eyes.

Phoebe was feeling a strange tightness in her abdomen as she gazed down at the witcher, whose feline eyes were devouring her with such lust and devotion. It snuck in alongside the residual tingle of her waiting orgasm, wrapping it in a swath of something pulsing, almost aching. It took her a moment to realize that the strange feeling was vulnerability- deep, abiding vulnerability, and the knowledge that Geralt truly had power over her now. Feelings were welling up inside of her that she’d never felt: fear, lust, happiness… something else, too, that she was too afraid to name. Too afraid to name, and yet somehow not afraid enough to resist giving herself over to it fully.

She combed her fingers gently through the locks at his temples and then caressed them down his face. One hand continued down to curl around the back of his neck, while the other remained, tracing his lips with her fingertips as he ran his soothing, devastating hands all over her body, stirring her senses until she felt dizzy with them. She surrendered, knowing there was no going back after this moment, and slowly lowered herself down onto his impressive length.

The very basest impulses in her body seemed to immediately take over as he stretched her deliciously, her head falling back and eyes glazing over with a lustful moan. She stilled to adjust when he was sheathed tightly to the hilt inside her, the tip of his manhood pressing into the barrier at the end of her channel. Geralt released his own rough moan into her neck, his fingers gripping her waist so hard that she was sure they’d leave bruises, but she didn’t mind. In fact, she found the slickness between her legs growing at the thought of him marking her that way, and she was suddenly desperate for friction. Leaning back to brace one hand behind her on his thigh, she lifted her hips until the flared head of his cock threatened to slip out, then lowered herself back down, the new angle tilting the stroke so that his length caressed that secret nerve inside her. Her eyes rolled closed, her breath catching as that tingling pressure flickered to life again, and she repeated the movement, slowly at first, and then with mounting urgency as she searched for more and more of that exquisite feeling.

The unbelievable squeezing of her walls around his shaft was literally taking Geralt’s breath away. He had, of course, felt the narrowness of her on his fingers earlier, had imagined how it would feel on his cock, but the reality was so much more potent that he was quickly becoming concerned that he wouldn’t be able to see this through the way he intended. The way her body was stretched out before him wasn’t helping, her heaving breasts shoved towards his face and her head thrown all the way back so that her damp hair was brushing along his legs with her movements. He growled through gritted teeth as he tried to maintain control of his impulses, wanting this to last as long as possible and worried he might hurt her if he truly let himself go. Phoebe’s tempo was increasing, and with it, his resolve was decreasing, until he realized with slight horror that his hands were trembling with how forcefully they were gripping the tender flesh of her waist. When he made to release her, though, she snapped her head up, her glazed eyes glowing brightly as she grasped his wrists, holding them in place.

“No, I like it when you hold me there,” she moaned, and he nearly came right then and there as she pressed his fingers back into her skin, her hips never faltering in their torturous ministrations. His cock twitched dangerously inside her.

“Stop moving,” he bit out.

But, unconcerned with his warning, she only slowed her movements to a deliberate, gyrating rhythm, drawing out every sensation of every stroke until Geralt thought he’d go insane. She wrapped her arms lazily around his neck and leaned in, her breasts pressing up against his chest as she licked his bottom lip and gave him a smoldering grin. She purred her next words into his mouth.

“I want to be marked by my wolf.”

 _“Phoebe,”_ he snarled, his fingers digging mercilessly into her ribcage as he slammed her down on his length and held her still. His control was dangling by a thread, and if he didn’t get a grip there would be no going back to this moment where she had the upper hand. He grit his teeth and doubled down on his efforts to keep her still as she tried to writhe against him, her mouth dropping down to nibble at his neck, her fingers wrapping into his hair and tugging his head back in that addictive way that always made him go weak in the knees. She seemed to be pushing him on purpose, goading him into letting go fully.

In a last-ditch effort, he fisted one hand into her damp curls and pulled her head up, gently but firmly. “If you don’t stop,” he ground out, “I won’t be able to hold myself back anymore.”

She ran her hands over his face, combing his hair back from his forehead as her eyes seared into him, approaching that white-hot brightness but not quite there yet. “I don’t want you to hold yourself back,” she husked needily, cupping his jaw in both her hands and kissing him languidly. “I want all of you. Please,” she pleaded, her voice still quiet but almost desperate as she tried again to squirm against his hold on her waist. “Please, Geralt, give me all of you.”

It was the most lethal drug, hearing her beg him like that, hearing his name spoken so sweetly on her lips. She teased his mouth open with her tongue and deepened their kiss, her body flush against him and her walls practically pulsing around his aching cock. He couldn’t stop the hand on her waist from flying up to cup her face, but he immediately realized his error when her little hand slipped back down behind her and planted itself on his thigh, giving her leverage to thrust against him again without disconnecting their lips. One long, vice-like stroke of her womanhood on his cock was all it took to break the final thread of his control. In a single lightning-fast, fluid movement he had her pinned into the mattress, her eyes pulsing victoriously as she pulled her knees up and apart for him.

The new position immediately had Phoebe on the verge of orgasm, the solidity of Geralt’s god-like body bearing down on her in the most delicious way imaginable as he kissed her with almost animalistic fervor. He slipped one forearm under her shoulders to grip the back of her neck, while the other hooked under her knee and reached up to reclaim its place on her waist, his fingers anchoring right back into the same tender indentations on her skin they’d bruised before. Her eyes almost rolled back in her head as the widening of the angle pushed him so deep inside her, deeper than anything she’d ever felt before. She was desperate for him to move, but he seemed content to torture her, helpless as she was, completely immobilized beneath him. She tried to keep her composure, to regulate her breathing, but the depth of him, his body and its woodsy scent pressing down on her, his possessive grip on her waist, his devastating mouth, which was now trailing slow, sloppy kisses along her jaw to her throat… it all had triggered something inside her, and she was like a bitch in heat, wanton and desperate. Absolutely desperate.

“Geralt,” she mewled, digging her nails into his back. A film of sweat broke out over her skin as she panted shallowly.

He moaned roughly in response, and she cried out at the feeling of his manhood twitching deep inside her. Her body was trembling with want, her muscles aching with how tightly they were knotted in anticipation. Her sweat tickled her skin as it trickled down her neck and pooled between her breasts. She needed him to move. Now.

Gripping is hair in both fists, she drew his head up and pressed her lips to his ear. “Please,” she pleaded sweetly. She traced the shell of his ear with her tongue, then nipped the skin just under his earlobe. He sucked in a breath of air, his fingers tensing further on her ribs. “Please, fuck me, Geralt.” She ran her tongue along his throat, trying to control her breathing but unable to keep the note of desperation out of her voice. “I need you.”

His breathing was loud and heavy, his grip on the back of her neck almost crushing, every muscle in his body tightening against her. But it seemed he lost the battle he was fighting against himself.

Because he withdrew from her heat until his tip was just pressing against the outside of her opening, and then slammed back into her so hard that she was shoved up the bed by several inches. He locked their lips brutally, swallowing her scream of ecstasy and releasing his own down her throat as he drove into her again and again. Each stroke came sooner than the last and sent a jolt through her as the coarse hair above his length brushed repeatedly over her swollen bud. She clung to him, her nails digging into the back of his shoulders until they drew blood, the nerves in her walls humming with unbearable pleasure every time he filled her. The knot underneath her navel was swelling, growing hotter and more tingly with every delicious stroke, and the higher he pushed her, the tighter her walls bore down on him, until her vision started to spot with white and her skin was burning so hot she thought she might actually catch fire. Once again, toes curled and went numb, her channel tightening, tightening, tightening, then rippling with the first tremors of release, her limbs beginning to twitch. Her eyes squeezed shut as she balanced on the crest of the tsunami welling up inside of her. Geralt broke the kiss, their sharp, uneven breaths and the shifting of the bed under his driving movements the only sounds filling the room for an interminable moment.

“Look at me, Phoebe,” he snarled viciously. “Let me see those eyes.”

Her eyes popped open only to be consumed by his almost completely black ones. She mewled helplessly; she was so close, so close. All she needed was a push.

And Geralt, as always, knew exactly how to give it to her.

He slid his hand up from her ribs to her breast, lifting her knee even further and sharply deepening the angle of penetration. He pressed himself even more firmly against her most sensitive spot as he moved with his thrusts. Then he drew his calloused thumb back and forth over her puckered nipple, and the tsunami inside of her crashed.

Her womanhood clenched down on him with such force that her vision was filled with blinding white light, and still he drove into her, renewing and extending her orgasm endlessly. She convulsed around him, screaming her pleasure until the reverberation of her own voice hurt her ears. Though Geralt had intended to make her come for him more than once, he had grossly underestimated the drugging effect of her euphoria. The seizing of her slick walls on his cock was irresistible, and soon he was sheathing himself inside of her with all of the speed and force he could muster, his own roar of release mingling with her scream as he shuddered violently and spent himself inside her in several long, twitching strokes. Then, both of their bodies went boneless in breathless unison.

They lay in a sweaty, entangled heap, quivering occasionally with the aftershocks of their pleasure as they slowly caught their breath. Geralt felt as if his very life essence had been milked from his body, his normally adamantine arms weak and trembling with the effort to keep from crushing Phoebe’s small frame. He let his face rest in the crook of her neck, feeling a balloon of possessive satisfaction inflate in his chest as he inhaled her scent and smelled himself mixed into it.

It could’ve been moments or hours that had passed when he finally lifted his head to look at her, only to find that her eyes were closed, her face soft and relaxed in sleep. Her hands slid limply down off his back as he propped himself on his elbows. He smirked affectionately at her slumberous groan when he nuzzled her cheek with his nose. Gently, he withdrew from her, then held her against his chest as he shimmied them both up the bed until he could draw the covers over their damp, exhausted bodies. He positioned her on her side, the way he knew she liked to sleep, then gathered her back into himself, propping his head on his elbow and brushing his fingers through her long tresses.

It was still very early, barely nine o’clock by his estimation, but he knew that Phoebe must be well and truly enervated. In addition to their paltry few hours of sleep the night before, she had expended an enormous amount of energy on that Axii, hadn’t been able to adequately rest afterwards, had sustained a head injury, and to his knowledge she hadn’t eaten a single thing since dinner the night before. _Didn’t stop her from being there when I needed her, though,_ he thought to himself, watching as her chest expanded and contracted slowly with her breaths. For the first time in a very, very long time, he felt content and peaceful- no dread or anxiety about what might come tomorrow, no waiting for the other shoe to drop, no bone-crushing weariness. He tried his best not to think about the fact that they would reach Trievona in a matter of days, tried his best not to think about Yennefer, waiting for him in Skellige. He would have to find a way to make it work, a way around those obstacles, because almost a century of his life had gone by before he’d finally experienced this feeling of lightness, of connectedness and emotional fulfillment. He couldn’t afford to wait around another hundred years for it to come along again.

 _I can’t fuck this up,_ he thought as he lay his head on the pillow and buried his nose in Phoebe’s hair. _Please, let me not fuck this up._


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ten million thanks for the lovely comments on the last chapter. i'm so glad you guys liked it, and hearing your thoughts is seriously one of my favorite things ever.
> 
> this chapter marks the end of part 1, and it's a long one. i heavily debated splitting it into two chapters, but i really wanted to stress the fact that everything in this chapter happens in the span of just a few days, so i left it as-is. i'm still a bit shaky on whether that was the right decision or not, so please feel free to sound off in the comments and let me know how you're feeling about it- whether you loved it, or felt it was rushed, whatever. as always, i'd love to hear your feedback! enjoy :)

The warm, flickering light from the fireplace and many candles greeted her when she opened her eyes, and she realized it was still nighttime. Geralt’s heavy arm was draped over her waist, his hand wrapped around her own and resting in the valley between her breasts. Her entire body was pleasantly sore, the place between her legs tender and aching in a way that made an involuntary grin spread across her face. She rolled onto her back, holding his hand in place on her chest, and saw with mild surprise that he was awake, his captivating golden eyes trained on her from his position on his side.

“Hi,” she smiled. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it in answer. “What time is it?”

“Around ten-thirty, if I had to guess.”

“I must’ve I passed right out,” she laughed sheepishly, feeling embarrassed.

But Geralt gave her a small, affectionate smile, reaching up to tuck her slightly damp hair behind her ear. “In your defense, you had a pretty long day.”

She turned her body to face him, their hands cupped loosely around each other in the narrow space between their chests. She pressed her forehead to his, gazes still locked.

“Has anyone ever told you that you have beautiful eyes?” she asked softly.

“It’s not the typical consensus.”

“Like molten gold.”

“They’ve got nothing on yours.”

“I disagree.” She brought his hand to her nose and inhaled deeply, her eyes falling closed as she surrounded herself in the scent of the forest. She couldn’t help but think of how close they were to her home now, and how they would soon have to say goodbye. An unbearable pang went through her chest. She didn’t want that to happen. She must’ve released a despairing sigh, because his hand slipped out of her own and cupped her cheek.

“Hey,” he said softly, and she could hear the concern in his voice. “What’s up?”

She raised her eyes to meet his. “We’ll be in Trievona in two days.”

“I know.” His voice was heavy with the same sadness and dread that was making her chest ache.

“I’ve only just found you, and now I’m going to lose you again,” she whispered.

“What if you don’t have to?”

She furrowed her brow. “What do you mean?”

“You said you were going to keep looking for Ciri and Avallac’h after getting settled at home. I could continue on to Velen when we reach Trievona, then come back for you in a few weeks. We can follow the Novigrad and Skellige leads together.”

Her heart had soared at his words, but dropped slightly again as she considered the implications of the suggestion. “But what about Triss and Yennefer? Don’t you think it’ll complicate things to have me around when you deal with them?”

“Don’t really care if it does or not. Just know I’m not ready to let this go. Are you?”

She still felt a chord of anxiety at the thought of being around his former lovers, but she pushed it down. Things were different now than they’d been the last time they’d seen Yennefer. Hell, things were different now than they’d been only twenty-four hours ago. She searched his eyes, and saw only tentative hope as he waited for her to speak.

“No,” she answered finally. “I’m not.”

He tilted his head to kiss her gently, his tongue remaining chastely behind his teeth. It was a lovely, tender moment, until a loud, undignified growl from her stomach ruined it. She felt her face grow hot as Geralt smirked amusedly at her.

“Hungry?”

“Starving,” she admitted with a bashful smile. She didn’t know why she was feeling so self-conscious around him all of a sudden. He planted another firm kiss on her lips before rolling out of bed and disappearing through the doorway to the other room. When he reappeared a moment later, he was carrying the large tray laden with fruit, bread, cheese, cured meat, and wine that she had ordered for them earlier. He set it down in the middle of the bed and she pushed herself eagerly up into a cross-legged position, the blankets falling down to her hips.

Geralt refilled their cups with wine and settled back into bed with her, tearing off a hunk of bread and handing it over. She piled cheese and meat onto it and devoured it, unable to suppress her moan of satisfaction. She’d never felt so hungry in her life. She didn’t come up for air until she’d inhaled four more pieces of bread laden with meat and cheese, the pangs in her stomach finally subsiding enough for her to take a break and have a sip of wine. When she looked up, she saw that Geralt’s eyes were glittering with amusement.

“Shut up,” she said, giving him a withering look over her cup.

“Didn’t say a word,” he smirked, taking a pull from his own wine.

She popped a few raspberries into her mouth and flopped back against the pillows, slinging an arm behind her head with a luxurious sigh. With the weight of their impending goodbye taken off her shoulders, she was filled with nothing but pure, all-consuming happiness. “This is perfect.”

Geralt stood to set the tray down on the floor near the end of the bed. “How’s your head?”

“Fine for now, thanks to your potion. It’s tomorrow I’m worried about.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” he growled, crawling predatorily up the bed until he was hovering over her, but not touching. He ducked his head to catch her mouth, making his intentions fully known with his tongue this time.

Phoebe melted under his kiss, her body viscerally responding to his closeness despite her exhaustion, and she was suddenly struck full-force by the gravity of everything they’d done together in the last several hours. For better or worse, a great shift was happening now. A wave of anxiety washed over her at her helplessness in the midst of that shift, as she considered how in over her head she was.

Because this wasn’t the normally-celibate Avallac’h or some cocky but inexperienced boy from another noble family. This was Geralt of Rivia she was falling for. And Geralt of Rivia was known for loving only the most legendary of women, not lost, wayward girls of the minor nobility. She was no one, and she could never measure up to the likes of Yennefer. Even Triss, who was just as fabled a sorceress, perhaps even moreso, hadn’t been enough to keep Geralt from returning to Yennefer the second she’d beckoned him. Phoebe stood no chance. Sooner or later Geralt would tire of her, and then he’d go back to Yennefer like he always did. She was setting herself up for heartbreak. Suddenly her pulse was racing, suffocating panic bubbling up in her chest.

“Geralt,” she gasped, breaking the kiss and pushing at him slightly with her hands flat on his chest. He pulled back a little to meet her eyes, and the storm of doubt and fear brewing in her heart cleared somewhat. Because all she saw in his gaze was her own devotion reflected back at her. “I…” she trailed, slightly breathless as she recovered from her moment of panic.

“What?” he prompted softly, nudging her nose with his own.

She shook her head slightly, her cheeks heating. “I’m just really glad we’re sticking together.”

“Me too.”

He lowered himself onto her, his warm body pressing her soothingly into the mattress, and she forced her lingering fears down deep.

It was too late to heed them anyway.

~

_Ard Skellig, Skellige_

_May 1272_

Yennefer stared into the dancing flames in the fireplace, the thumb and forefinger of one hand moving absently back and forth across her lower lip as she retreated deep into her thoughts. It was the middle of the day, and she should be out in the forest investigating the mysterious explosion, but for the umpteenth day in a row, she found herself unable to fully devote herself to that purpose.

It had been tough going since she’d arrived in Skellige, but not for any of the reasons one might expect. No, it wasn’t the harsh weather, or the fact that the Islanders hated her, or how worried she was about Ciri. Her trouble was that she had a crucial and difficult job to do here, and so far she’d made no progress at all because she was distracted by thoughts of Geralt. Thoughts of what Geralt might be _doing_ with that dryad girl.

There was something between them, anyone could see that, even if nothing had actually happened yet. Of course, Yen was used to Geralt’s escapades. She’d unfortunately been dealing with them for decades, but this time felt worse somehow. Maybe it was the fact that she and Briaris had never gotten along, or that the girl was Ciri’s age, practically a _child_. Or maybe it was the fact that Yen had finally allowed herself to hope for a fresh start with Geralt. They would have Ciri back when this was all over, and things could be as they were. She was still raw over what happened with Triss, of course, but even she had to begrudgingly admit that what Geralt had done when he had no memory of his former life couldn’t be held against him.

She’d even been prepared to tell him that in Vizima, but then he’d turned up with _her_ , and Yennefer knew as soon as she’d laid eyes on them that a reunion with Geralt wouldn’t be as simple as she’d hoped. And since then, try as she might, she couldn’t focus on anything she should be doing here in Skellige. She was constantly consumed by jealous thoughts of what they could be doing together on the road night after night, and her lack of control over the situation was becoming hard for her to cope with.

She turned away from the fire and took to pacing slowly back and forth across her cozy bedchamber at The New Port, considering how best to solve her current predicament. Over the weeks since she’d arrived in Skellige, she had been keeping track of Geralt’s whereabouts using locating spells. To her consternation, she’d noticed that while he _had_ been moving west, his trajectory wasn’t towards Velen. Though she had considered many times that this information gave her the perfect excuse to go and confront him in person, her pride had held her back. She hadn’t wanted to fully acknowledge how deeply affected she was by all this. But she had to admit now, after weeks of distraction and non-productivity, that seeing Geralt’s usual bewitchment in her presence would do wonders to reassure her that regardless of who he traveled with, she still had his heart.

It was clear that both Geralt and the girl needed to be reminded of that fact as well.

~

_Anchor, Temeria_

_May 1272_

“You don’t need to look so guilty.” She paused her search through her saddlebag to smirk over at Geralt, who was eyeing her bruised skin dolefully from where he lay on his back in bed. In truth, she’d awoken so sore that she wasn’t sure how she’d survive a day of riding without another painkilling potion. But when she’d stood before the mirror to find the five bluish-black indentations of Geralt’s fingertips adorning each side of her waist, and then the five more on the sides of her neck, she’d grown hot with desire at the sight of them.

Geralt, on the other hand, had gone so somber and pouty with contrition that she couldn’t help but laugh at him a little.

“Shouldn’t have been so rough with you,” he scowled darkly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Won’t happen again, Phoebe, I promise you.”

She immediately dropped her newly extracted smallclothes and skipped back to the bed, launching herself playfully into a straddle of his hips over the bedsheet. He kept his arms stubbornly crossed over his chest, as if refusing to even touch her now, but she tugged insistently at his wrists until he allowed her to move them. She pressed his fingers back into the dark imprints on her waist, hissing softly at the tender pain but holding him fast when he tried to jerk his hands away. Leaning over him, one arm braced on either side of his head, she ducked down to lick his lower lip.

“I like them,” she husked, smiling against his mouth at his sharp intake of breath when her breasts pressed into his chest, her hair falling to the side of their heads like a curtain. She kissed along his jaw to his throat, where she gave him a sharp nip, causing him to groan and jerk against her. She could feel the heat of his hardening manhood through the sheet. “And when these ones fade, I want you to give me new ones.”

She pulled back a little to meet his eyes, and when she saw that they were black with lust and gleaming voraciously up at her, the place between her legs seemed to instantly flood with wetness, her breath catching in her throat. Freeing one hand from her waist, Geralt grasped her by the jaw and pulled her mouth firmly down to his own in a slow, brutal kiss. With his rigid grip on her face, she could do little more than benignly kiss him back, unable to move her head to deepen the kiss or exploit his weak spots by moving down to his neck. Her powerlessness, even as she sat astride him, soon had her body strung tight and humming with need as he continued to plunder her mouth at a cruel, lazy pace.

Slowly, he sat up, their mouths never parting, and she had no choice but to follow meekly, her breath becoming short as she gripped his shoulders with all she had. Hungry for more, she tried to move her head, only for Geralt to redouble his grip on her jaw and nip her lower lip lightly in reprimand. She was met with the same rigidity from the hand on her waist when she attempted to rock against him, and released a frustrated whimper into his mouth. The soaked cotton between them offered only the smallest measure of friction- not nearly enough to satisfy her needs.

Finally, after what felt like an eternal torture, he released her waist and reached around her. She implicitly knew to lift her hips so that he could yank the sheet out from between them, and stifled a gasp when he palmed her ass from underneath, wordlessly indicating that she was to remain up on her knees like this. She held her breath as he lined himself up at her entrance. Then he leaned back on one hand, moved the unyielding grip of the other from her face to her waist, and flexed his hips.

She moaned helplessly at the drugging mixture of pleasure and pain as he slowly filled her, her fingernails digging into the sinew of his shoulders, but she resisted letting her eyes fall closed. She knew how much he liked to see them. When he was finally sheathed to the hilt, he drew in to lock his lips with hers again, his tongue sliding languidly into her mouth. She cupped his jaw, whimpering softly as he began to pump slowly in and out of her, each stroke brushing her most sensitive spot against the hot skin of his lower abdomen. Already, the place behind her navel was throbbing, growing taut with the first stirrings of her orgasm, and she began to feel that bottomless need for more sensation, more pressure on her sensitive nub, more everything. But he’d made it crystal clear that he wanted to be in control right now, and so she forced herself to keep still, her thighs trembling with the effort as he bucked into her again and again, his mouth never stopping its lazy ministrations against her own.

They began to sweat in the shaft of morning sun that shone across the bed, Geralt’s breaths growing heavier as he picked up the pace, and the throbbing in Phoebe’s core intensified, making her suddenly desperate for more friction, power play be damned. Moving against Geralt’s ironclad hold on her bruised flesh, she began to rock against him in time with his thrusts, eliciting a groan of pleasure from his throat. Gone was the slow languidness of their kissing; now they melded their mouths ravenously, Phoebe curling her fingers into his hair to pull him more firmly into her. She broke the kiss with a hot moan when her channel began to tighten, bracing her hands flat on his chest and pushing back slightly for leverage to press her inflamed core more firmly into him. She cried out at the flood of sensation when it slipped freely back and forth over the sweat-slick lower muscles of his abdomen.

Soon they were writhing savagely against each other, their animalistic gasps and moans filling the air. The pressure behind Phoebe’s navel was at a bursting point, and she rode him frantically, rubbing herself even harder into the coarse hair above his cock. The sudden increase in speed proved to be Geralt’s undoing, and he roared his release into her neck, the hard twitching of his cock deep inside her triggering her own tumble into ecstasy. Phoebe keened, her walls clamping down on him deliciously again and again, until the contractions wound down to weak flutters and she let her head fall into the crook of his neck. Geralt lowered them back into the pillows, where she adjusted herself so that her ear was pressed into his chest, the slowing rhythm of his heart lulling her into an almost irresistible state of sleepiness. The way he was stroking her hair didn’t help things, either.

“I’m addicted to you,” he rasped from somewhere above her head.

“I know the feeling,” she sighed.

By the time they were finally able to keep their hands off of each other long enough to get dressed and back on the road, it was almost midday. Geralt had insisted on riding behind her on Rabbit’s back, leaving Roach to trail, happy and riderless, next to them. It soon became clear why he had made this decision, for by the time they bedded down for the night in the woods near Vallweir, his wandering hands and lascivious words murmured in her ear had brought them to a halt no less than three times so that he could take her, fast and hard, against a nearby tree or hidden behind the thick greenery. They couldn’t seem to get their fill of each other, especially with the knowledge that the following day they would be separated for three weeks. Phoebe found herself feeling very glad that witchers were sterile, for if they weren’t, she would doubtless be finding herself with child after the events of the last twenty-four hours.

As they lay under the furs of their combined bedrolls, their naked bodies curled around each other and eyes gazing up at the stars twinkling through the trees, Phoebe’s heart felt more full than it had in years. Tomorrow, she would see her parents. She would finally, _finally_ go home. And after that, when she and Geralt went searching for Ciri and Avallac’h, she would have weeks upon weeks of… this. She sighed contentedly, idly lacing and unlacing her fingers with Geralt’s as she listened to his strong, steady heartbeat under her ear.

“You know, I’ll probably start having nightmares again after you go,” she remarked.

“Same here,” he deadpanned, and she snorted.

“I’m being serious.” She was trying to sound reproachful, but she couldn’t help but smile as she lifted her head to meet his eyes.

“So am I. Don’t like the thought of not being around to protect you, even just for a few weeks.”

Her heart soared, but she grinned at him cheekily, arching an eyebrow. “Well, that’s sweet and all, but let’s not forget, nine times out of ten since we met, it’s _me_ protecting _you._ So maybe you should just worry about yourself, hm?”

“Touché,” he smirked.

“So, three weeks?”

“Not a day longer.”

“But what if you’re not done in Velen by then?”

“I’ll come get you and we’ll go back to finish together.”

“I like the way you think.”

“Yeah, well, that’s why they pay me the top coin,” he quipped dryly, leaning in to plant a chaste kiss on her lips. “Now get some sleep, we have training in the morning.”

She smiled to herself as she pressed her ear to his chest again and closed her eyes. “As you say, master witcher.”

~

When the sun rose, Phoebe rose right along with it, so jittery was she with nerves for the day ahead. For the first time in a long time, she had the rare privilege of being awake when Geralt was asleep, and had spent the last thirty or so minutes laying on her side just watching him. Trying to align her breathing with his seemed to be the only thing that could even marginally calm her nerves. She knew she should be resting, too; they had a long, grueling day of riding ahead of them, not to mention the emotional drain of saying goodbye for a while and seeing her family. But her brain just wouldn’t stop churning, her thoughts and emotions ricocheting from absolute elation at the prospect of finally being home, to shock that this interminable life journey of hers was finally coming to a close, to abject misery at the thought of being apart from the witcher slumbering before her, which frankly felt like tearing flesh despite having only known each other a month.

She was jolted from her thoughts when Geralt’s gravelly voice pierced the quiet, though his eyes remained closed.

“See something you like?”

“Sorry,” she replied, her face flushing with embarrassment. Geralt opened one eye, his eyebrow arched.

He reached over and pulled her closer by the arm. “C’mere, talk to me. Your heart’s been racing so hard, it woke me up.”

She frowned in confusion. “You can hear my heart?”

“When you’re near enough. Can also smell some of your emotions on you, like the anxiety that’s wafting off of you right now. Witcher senses, remember?”

She rolled her eyes, but scooted closer, resting her chin on his chest with a heavy sigh.

“What’s going on?”

“I just have been waiting so long for this day,” she murmured. “I don’t know, it’s like I’ve been working towards it for so long that after a certain point I stopped thinking it would actually happen. And now that it’s going to, I’m realizing I never confronted what it would _mean_ to be back home. It’s been a long, long time since I lived as a noble lady, Geralt. I’m not used to doing nothing all day long and being proper anymore. I’m literally not the same person I was the last time I saw my parents. What if they don’t like the person I’ve become, and we don’t get along anymore? What if they’re scared of me now that I’m a dryad? What if I’m not fit to take up my family’s legacy and be a good burgravine when the time comes? I don’t even know my own lands or people anymore.” She took a shaky breath. “I’ve worried about me and only me, and just _surviving_ for so long that I don’t know if I’ll be able to adjust to a life of propriety and leadership.”

Geralt, who had lain quietly and simply listened as she talked through her thoughts, lifted a hand to stroke her hair. “Not true. You’ve worried about anyone _but_ yourself. Even when you were with the Rats, you stayed because you were worrying about Ciri. You’ve worried about her and Avallac’h so much that you’re willing to leave your family _again_ to make sure they’re safe. You’ve worried about me, constantly defending my honor and putting yourself in harm’s way when I’m in danger, even when you’d just met me. You’re a strong, intelligent, selfless person, Phoebe. Can’t think of anyone better to become a leader someday. And if your parents can’t see that, they’re the ones with the problem.”

Phoebe’s eyes prickled with tears, and she kissed his chest gratefully. “Thank you,” she whispered, giving him a tremulous smile. “Those are the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me.”

“They’re just facts, Phoebe.” He lifted his head to plant a kiss on her forehead. “Just facts.”

She sniffed. “Can we just skip training today? I want to be here with you like this while I still can.”

He rolled her over onto her back. “Absolutely,” he murmured smoothly in her ear, before descending on her throat with his mouth.

Some of the tension had drained from her body by the time they finally set off, thanks to Geralt’s magical hands and mouth, but she still felt a hard, writhing knot of snake-like panic in her gut. They rode their own respective horses today, but stuck as close together as their galloping pace would allow, and even closer whenever they gave the horses a walking break, Geralt’s knee bumping against hers as they ambled along the road. When they were only an hour’s ride from Trievona, they veered into the woods for a rest so that they could spend a last quiet moment together and Phoebe could collect herself.

They sat side by side on a fallen tree, chatting idly and eating a small meal of bread, cheese, and dried fruit. It felt light, and innocent, and familiar, and Phoebe’s dread at their separation lifted slightly as she realized that this didn’t need to be a heavy, devastating goodbye. Because a heavy, devastating goodbye would be a permanent one, and this wasn’t that.

“How’re you feeling? Ready?” Geralt asked, nudging her slightly with his shoulder.

“No,” she smiled apprehensively. “But ready or not, it’s time.”

“Hey,” he said softly cupping his hand bracingly on the back of her neck under her hair. She lifted her eyes to meet his. “You _are_ ready. This is your moment. It’s been a long time coming and it’ll never come again, so you should bask in it. You’ve earned it.”

She released a long, slow breath, then gave a resolute nod. “You’re right. I’ve earned it, and I should just let myself feel happy instead of tying myself in knots expecting something to go wrong.”

He pulled her closer to press his forehead against hers for a second, giving her an encouraging squeeze with the hand on her neck. Then he stood.

“Should hit the road if we wanna make it there before sundown with time to spare.”

She nodded and followed, stretching deeply and shaking her hands about to try and release some tension.

“Be right back,” Geralt said, and gestured towards the woods before disappearing through the trees to relieve himself.

Phoebe set about repacking their supplies, ensuring that the horses had drank their fill of water while she was at it. Then she sat back down on the log and gathered her thoughts. She tried to roust up some confidence. _These are your parents. They’ll love you no matter what. You’ll finally get to do all those things you used to love, like long rides in the woods with Mama and games of gwent with Papa. You’ll finally be_ home.

She smiled softly at the memories of those beloved traditions, letting herself get lost in them, until she realized it had been quite a while since Geralt had gone into the woods. She frowned, scanning the trees and listening for any sounds, but heard nothing. _It probably hasn’t been that long,_ she reasoned. _It just feels like it because you were daydreaming._ She checked the position of the sun and then waited. When fifteen minutes passed with no sign of Geralt, she stood and began to pick her way through the trees in the direction he’d gone. Realizing that she didn’t want to just stumble upon him in a compromising position if he was indeed somehow still taking care of business, she paused to check through the trees for anything that might indicate where he was.

She let her mind flow through the roots, and then she felt it: _two_ pairs of feet, not too far ahead of where she was. Now worried that he might’ve been ambushed by a bandit or defected soldier, she silently crept forward, her hand on the hilt of her sword. It felt like many moments had gone by before she finally heard voices, but when she did hear them, she stopped short, her heart turning cold. Because she recognized _both_ of them. One was Geralt’s.

And the other was Yennefer’s.

She was still too far away to see them, but she stayed frozen to the spot anyway, listening hard. Yennefer was speaking.

“Don’t I mean anything to you anymore? Is everything we went through just going to be chucked aside, like it’s nothing?” Her tone wasn’t sad or pleading, but mocking, almost goading.

“Of course not. You mean the world to me, you know that, Yen. Dropped everything in my life to come after you the minute I got your letter.”

Heart pounding so hard that she could physically see the leather of her cuirass jumping with it when she looked down, Phoebe’s feet continued to carry her silently forward through the trees. When Geralt and Yennefer finally came into view, she wished she had turned and run the second she’d heard them.

He stood leaning back against a tree, one ankle crossed casually in front of the other. And not two inches in front of him was the famed sorceress, staring up into his eyes, her gloved hands resting on his shoulders. Phoebe’s stomach roiled when her eyes dropped down to find Geralt’s hands gripping Yennefer’s waist. It felt like a weight had physically been dropped on her chest, and she suddenly found it very hard to breathe.

“Well, that’s good to hear,” Yennefer said, her voice lower, husky as she closed the final distance between them and pressed herself to Geralt’s body fully. “I was beginning to worry that maybe you’d truly moved on.”

And then she was moving closer, and closer, rising up onto her toes, only an inch of space left between their mouths.

That was when Phoebe reached her limit. Feeling strangled with the pain in her chest, she turned away, tiptoeing carefully back the way she came until she was sure she was out of earshot. Then she sprinted with all her might. _For the best,_ she told herself firmly, while also knowing full well that it wasn’t, not even close. _It could never have gone anywhere anyway. He’s a witcher. You’re destined to be a burgravine._ She almost gave a derisive laugh at the irony that she’d give anything for a drink from the Waters of Brokilon at that moment, so she could forget Geralt ever existed. As it was, the best she could do was get home as quickly as possible, so she could go back to the life she was _supposed_ to be living and move on.

She leapt onto Rabbit’s back without a second’s delay when she reached their resting spot, turning him towards Trievona and bolting out of the forest at an all-out gallop. As they tore down the road, a mere blur of white and brown, hot tears streaming back into her hair in the wind, she suddenly remembered an old saying of her mother’s from when she was young.

_If it seems too good to be true, then it probably is._

_~_

Geralt had only just finished buckling his breeches back up when he heard a rustling behind him. Expecting a monster or bandit, he whirled defensively, his hand poised near his sword hilts, but what he found instead, standing only a few feet in front of him, made his jaw drop.

 _“Yen?!”_ he asked, stunned. She stood there, hands on her hips, giving him that hard, calculating look that always made him feel so exposed. “What are you doing here?”

“I noticed you weren’t traveling towards Velen, though I seem to recall very distinctly that we agreed that’s where you should be going next. Have I missed something?”

“So, what, you just appear outta nowhere while I’m taking a piss?”

“Actually, I was about to make my presence known when you were sitting over there with your little tree nymph. But then you ventured out on your own, and I thought confronting you here would be cleaner.”

“How’d you know where to find us?”

“I’ve been keeping tabs on you.”

Geralt sighed, narrowing his eyes at her. Of all the times for Yen to show up, he couldn’t picture a more inopportune one. Phoebe needed him right now. Today was important for her, and that was what he should be focusing on. But as always when he was in Yen’s presence, he somehow found himself unable to turn his back on her, no matter how much he knew he was needed elsewhere.

“And why’s that? Didn’t trust that I’d do what I said I would?”

“Clearly I was right. You _haven’t_ done what you said you would.”

“I’m just escorting Ph- Briaris to Trievona. Then I’m continuing on to Velen like we agreed.” He caught himself just in time, remembering that most people didn’t know Phoebe was Phoebe, though he supposed that would change after today.

“That seems like a great deal of effort for someone you don’t even really know,” she commented lightly.

“Why are you here, Yen? Really?”

“You surprise me, Geralt,” she chided in her signature casual, mocking tone. “Triss, at least, I understood; after all, renowned sorceresses _are_ your type, aren’t they? But I must admit I had no idea you also had a penchant for spoiled, arrogant little children from the woods.” She arched a sardonic eyebrow at him.

A muscle in his jaw twitched, and he shook his head. “So _that’s_ what this is about. If I recall correctly, you didn’t want to work things out or even speak one word about our relationship when I tried in Vizima. Now suddenly you show up here, asking me about Briaris, who, by the way, has never done anything to you except dare to give as good as she gets when you’re rude to her-”

“What do you expect to _get_ out of this relationship?” Yen took a step forward, narrowing her eyes. “Moreover, what can you expect to _give?_ She’s a young, fertile dryad in her prime and you’re a hundred-year-old witcher. You must know she’ll tire of you.”

That stung, but he hid it well, and tried to refocus on the issue at hand. He took a deep breath. “Look, I get being jealous, but if you felt this strongly, why not tell me that when I was right in front of you trying to talk about what happened between us? You just shut me down, acted like you didn’t want anything to do with me other than sticking to business.”

“I suppose I didn’t expect you to immediately run off with some adolescent girl.” She gestured in the direction of where Phoebe sat with the horses. “I’d intended to talk about it when you arrived in Skellige.”

“Doesn’t work like that, Yen,” he shook his head. “Can’t just make your own plans and expect me to go along with them when I don’t even know what they are. We’ve been through this before.”

“I didn’t think I _needed_ to communicate a plan,” she retorted. “I assumed that if you wanted to work things out in Vizima, you’d still want to work things out in Skellige.”

Geralt sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger and squeezing his eyes shut. On the one hand, this was Yen. He still felt so bonded to her even now, unable to even leave this conversation like he should’ve done right from the start. She seemed to have an immovable hold on him, always had. When they were apart, he managed to forget about it somewhat- he managed to see a bigger picture, and that there were other paths to happiness and fulfillment open to him. But the second she came back into his life, that part of him always woke up- the part of him that implicitly felt he _should_ be with her, that would always go where she wanted him to no matter what.

But on the other hand, even during the times when he and Yen had been good, he’d never before experienced what he felt with Phoebe. She was so warm with him, and validating. Not cold and hard like he was so used to Yen being. He felt _worthy_ with Phoebe. He knew better than to give that up, and he opened his mouth to tell Yen as much.

But then the scent of lilac and gooseberries suddenly filled his nostrils, and when his eyes popped open, she was standing not even a foot in front of him and he was drowning in the violet of her gaze. She placed her hands gently on his shoulders, touching him for the first time since before he’d lost his memory, and his mind went blank, his hands seeming to move to her waist on pure instinct.

“Don’t I mean anything to you anymore? Is everything we went through just going to be chucked aside, like it’s nothing?”

His heart constricted at her words, at the mere thought of such a notion ever being true, and his answer flew viscerally from his mouth. “Of course not. You mean the world to me, you know that, Yen. Dropped everything in my life to come after you the minute I got your letter.”

He thought he heard a small sigh of relief escape her lips, and she gave him the slightest of smiles. “Well, that’s good to hear,” she said softly, stepping forward so that she was suddenly pressed against him. His heart began to pound in his ears, his breath catching at the sudden proximity. “I was beginning to worry that maybe you’d truly moved on.”

He stared down at her, hypnotized, his voice seeming to have died in his throat. Her face was getting closer, her body slipping up the leather of his armor as she raised onto her toes.

 _She’s going to kiss me,_ a dim voice said in his head. And then, it was as if he’d been slapped back into clarity. His fingers tightened on her waist, and he pushed her back.

“Can’t do this,” he managed roughly, sidestepping her and giving himself some space. Yen didn’t turn right away, her back rigid, and there was a long silence while Geralt caught his breath and came fully back to himself. “Don’t get me wrong, Yen. You _do_ mean the world to me, always will. But I made a decision to be with Phoebe. Maybe you’re right, maybe she will tire of me. But for the first time in my life I feel like a human being and not a monster. So either way, I’m gonna see it through.”

When Yennefer finally turned, her face was impassive, a faint smirk on her lips. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that if I were you.” Her glittering eyes flitted pointedly towards the woods to her right, in the direction of Phoebe and the horses, and Geralt felt as if a fist made of ice had wrapped around his heart when he grasped her meaning.

“I have to go,” he said shortly, meeting her eyes. “See you in Skellige, Yen.” Then he strode into the woods, hoping beyond hope that Yen was just toying with him, that what she was insinuating wasn’t true. But when he inhaled deeply and scented the fading notes of cedar, neroli, and iris barely lingering on the air, he knew that it was.

He took off through the woods at full tilt, feeling sick when he reached their small encampment to find only Roach waiting for him there. Dashing through the remaining trees, he jerked himself up into the saddle, digging his heels into Roach’s sides and clicking his tongue in her ear to send her off into a breakneck gallop. _She can’t be that far ahead of me,_ he reasoned, a wholly unfamiliar measure of panic swelling up his throat. He had no idea how to explain away what she’d seen, had no idea how he was going to make things go back to the way they were. All he knew was that if he didn’t catch up with Phoebe before she disappeared behind the doors of her parents’ castle, she would never give him a chance to see her again, and he would never forgive himself. He pushed Roach harder, mentally promising to give her an extra bucket of oats later in thanks.

He periodically caught faint whiffs of Phoebe's scent as he galloped on, and kept track of them to ensure he followed her exact route. Before long, the woods on either side of the road thinned, breaking into large fields that should’ve been filled with healthy, flourishing grain. Only, they weren’t. They were dead and barren. A short ways later, Geralt flew past a hanging, decomposing corpse, and then another on the ground, and another. Peering into the fields on either side of him, he saw crawling necrophages in the distance. Dread settled, cold, and heavy, in his gut.

He stopped counting the bodies after the tenth one, and by the time he reached the gates of the village, he felt positively ill with foreboding. The few villagers left were bone-thin and bedraggled, their eyes dim, hair stringy and limp. Children peered listlessly at him out of rundown huts, their faces streaked with dirt. The air was rank with decomposition and a nauseating mixture of human, animal, and monster filth. This wasn’t a village well taken care of by its lords. Something horrible had happened here.

His heart lurched when he caught sight of Rabbit up ahead, standing riderless in the main square. He scanned around for Phoebe, who he found approaching a nearby villager, her face ashen. He spurred Roach onward, coming level with Rabbit just in time to hear their exchange.

“What happened here?” Phoebe’s voice was strangled with panic.

“Bandits,” the elderly woman replied dully. Her gown was filthy, and when Geralt looked down he saw that she was barefoot. “Ransacked the place, killed anyone what tried to stand against ‘em. Most o’ the village fled, farmers too.”

“When?” she demanded.

“Six months past, thereabouts.”

Without a word, Phoebe turned and strode back towards Rabbit.

“Phoebe,” Geralt called, but if she heard or saw him, she didn’t show it. She leapt into the saddle and without even putting her feet in her stirrups, dug her heels mercilessly into Rabbit’s sides, bolting up the road leading to the castle. Geralt had no choice but to follow, spurring Roach on as much as possible to keep up. His already thick sense of foreboding grew even more palpable as they tore up the overgrown road, broken-down gates with peeling blue paint coming into view up ahead. The sight beyond the gates all but confirmed his worst fears.

The grounds around the castle were overgrown and wild. The great wooden doors at the top of the stone steps were open at haphazard angles, barely hanging on their hinges and soft-looking with rot, exposing the interior of the castle to the elements. Several windows were broken, and there was an eerie quiet about the place. Not even a single birdsong could be heard.

Phoebe had dismounted before Rabbit was even at a stop, striding up the stairs like a woman possessed, and had reached the top already by the time he dismounted and began to follow. He was halfway up the steps and she had disappeared inside for only seconds before her heartrending cry reached his ears. He dashed up the remaining steps, stopping short in the doorway at the scene in front of him, and released a heavy sigh.

The hall was all but destroyed, broken china and glass littering the ground, furniture tipped over and upholstery slashed. Geralt could see through open double-doors on either side that the adjacent rooms were in a similar state. But that was nowhere near the worst of it.

Sprawled near each other on the floor of the hall were two skeletons. They were distinguishable as a man and woman by their clothing, which had faded and worn down thanks to the elements and decomposition. But it was still plain to see that the woman’s gown and the man’s doublet had been very fine indeed, which could only mean one thing about who these skeletons belonged to.

And then there was Phoebe. She had fallen to her knees just next to her mother’s skull, and was rocking back and forth, wailing with such profound anguish that it made Geralt’s own eyes prickle. Yanking her gloves off shakily, she slowly reached out a trembling hand, hovering it momentarily over her mother’s brow. When she finally laid it on the bone, her keening doubled.

Geralt shook his head sorrowfully, the guilt for what had transpired with Yennefer in the woods weighing on him even more. If not for that, he would be down there on his knees with Phoebe, holding her with all his might and murmuring comforting words in her ear. But as it was, she probably was unsure of whether she even wanted him here or not, let alone whether she wanted him to touch her or speak to her. Regardless, he wasn’t leaving her. He knew that much. He approached slowly, and lowered himself onto his knees beside her, close but not touching. _Whenever you need me, I’m here,_ he thought resolutely.

They remained like that, Phoebe weeping inconsolably and him sitting a silent vigil at her side, for hours, though he didn’t know how many. Finally, her sobs began to taper, then turn into hiccups, and then she was silent, her tears temporarily spent. He knew from experience that she was in a phase of numbness now, but the crushing sorrow would come back, sooner or later. It always did.

Another long, long while passed in silence, the sun beginning its descent to the horizon. Then, she spoke, so suddenly that Geralt’s head jerked to look at her in surprise.

“Her necklace,” she said hoarsely, and he wasn’t even sure if she was addressing him or not. “It’s gone.” She reached over and grasped her father’s skeletal right wrist, jerking it upwards to inspect his hand. “His ring, too.”

She abruptly rose to her feet, stalking swiftly out the door and down the steps with a ferocity that put him immediately on edge. When she turned to vault onto Rabbit’s back, he saw that her eyes were glowing strangely, almost white hot, like when they’d made love. Only now they were cold, feral. Like Phoebe wasn’t really behind them. Geralt rushed to keep up as she yanked Rabbit around and took off back towards the village.

When they reached the square, she reined up short next to the same woman she’d spoken to earlier and reached down, yanking her closer roughly by the arm. The woman looked terrified, her eyes wide as she perceived the menacingly glowing irises staring back at her. Geralt looked on with mounting unease, shocked by Phoebe’s uncharacteristic behavior but knowing that the last thing he should do was intervene.

“Tell me about the bandits,” she snarled. “Who were they?”

“I- I-” the woman stuttered, scared speechless. Phoebe lifted her other hand, signed Axii, and the woman’s eyes were instantly vacant.

“Who were they?” Phoebe repeated.

“Don’t know, miss,” the woman replied vaguely. “They was led by a man named Jannick.”

“Where did they go?”

“Mos’ left, but Jannick and some others took o’er the inn near the Gors Velen-Vallweir crossroads. Turned it into a whorehouse.”

Phoebe released the woman and bolted forward, making for the village gate and veering left up the northern road at a gallop. After fifteen minutes of hard riding, Geralt keeping close behind her, the once-well-kept building in question came into view on the sanguine horizon, the red lantern hanging outside its doors signaling its status as a pleasure house.

Phoebe dismounted out front, stalked around to Roach’s saddle, and unsheathed the long dagger that Geralt kept hidden under his bedroll. Then, she pummeled the inn’s doors with an Aard so powerful that a large surrounding portion of the building’s facade crumbled right along with them. Beyond the jagged, gaping opening she’d just created, Geralt heard the dissonance of abruptly halted music, the bards, working girls, and drunken patrons clamoring frantically away from the destruction, eyes wide with fear.

Phoebe entered slowly, casually, the grip of the dagger clutched in her fist, the blade pressed up along the inside of her forearm, hidden from view. Geralt kept to her side, watching her closely as her blazing eyes scanned the room, moving over every occupant before fixing on something at the back. Following her gaze, he saw a man, clearly a bandit, sitting at a table in the back, flanked by two more rough-looking bandits who stood on either side of him. They glared at Phoebe with their hands on their swords. Geralt caught sight of more bandits amongst the patrons, too, all poised to attack. The seated man at the back was clearly their leader, for he was wearing a garish, ill-fitting doublet that was clearly stolen and his fingers were laden with jewels. When Geralt’s gaze drifted up to the man’s neck, he saw what Phoebe was looking for.

Phoebe smiled at the man, though it could more accurately be described as baring her teeth. “You Jannick?”

The twitching muscle in the man’s neck was enough of an affirmative answer for Geralt, and Phoebe must’ve seen it, too, because she began to advance on him, eyes still burning like white hot coals.

“Who the fuck’s askin’?” Jannick snarled back, but the fear in his voice was poorly disguised. Geralt followed Phoebe at a distance, his hand resting on his steel. He was ready to intervene if Phoebe was about to be truly hurt, but he somehow knew in his gut that she didn’t want help with this. She wanted this to be all her.

Two of the bandits came at her simultaneously from opposite sides. The first swung at her neck, but Phoebe ducked effortlessly and plunged the blade up into his heart from under his ribs. From her squat on the floor, she neatly pivoted to stab the dagger into the second bandit’s foot, and when he dropped to his knee, she stood upright again, slashing the blade smoothly along his throat as she went. Panting softly now, she continued her approach, each step predatory, deliberate, and catlike. Geralt couldn’t see her face, but he just knew her eyes were fixed on Jannick, her pace slowly becoming swifter the closer she got to her kill.

Another bandit tried his luck, lunging at her with his sword, but she sidestepped him, driving her blade straight into his neck. When she wrenched it back out again, the beating of the man’s slowing heart sent a repeated spray of blood over her, but she didn’t flinch. She was able to take two more steps before her next challenger made himself known. This one had a mace instead of a sword, but it made no difference in his fate. He swung over his head, the heavy spiked end of the mace hitting the ground hard when Phoebe predictably stepped out of the way. She seized the opportunity to stomp the weapon out of his hand with her boot, then stabbed him in the heart through his ribs.

The last two bandits, flanking Jannick, came around the table, their blades trembling slightly in the lamplight. Phoebe ducked the first lunge attack, maneuvering herself around the bandit to knife him through the back. The second bandit, seemingly unwilling to risk his life for Jannick any longer, lowered his sword and tried to run. But Phoebe blasted him back against the wall with an Aard and plunged the dagger into his chest. Normally, Geralt wouldn’t abide killing someone with a lowered weapon, but in this case he understood Phoebe. Every one of these men had a hand in the murder of her parents and the destruction of the place she called home. There was no way she was going to let any of them walk out of here alive.

All obstacles cleared, Phoebe resumed her slow approach, her bastian red with spattered blood, her cuirass slick with it. She was panting heavily now, shoulders rigid, the dripping knife still clenched immovably in her fist. Geralt had long since let his hand drop to his side, realizing quickly that Phoebe wouldn’t be requiring his intervention in any measure. He hung back, entranced, and watched the scene unfold.

“Who are you?!” Jannick cried, his face shining with sweat, a pendulous drop of which was quivering at the end of his nose. “What do you want?!”

She spoke to him sweetly, as if he were a slow-witted child. “That pendant around your neck belonged to my mother. The sapphire ring on your left middle finger? _That_ was my father’s. You know what that means, don’t you?” Jannick’s eyes went wide with fear as she continued to stalk towards him. She didn’t rush, didn’t build momentum as she went, and Geralt suspected she was savoring Jannick’s terror as he watched his death advance on him step, by step, by step. Finally, she reached the table, stopping right in front of it. “Yeah,” she confirmed softly. “You know what it means.”

Jannick tried to hastily reach for his dagger, sitting on the table, but Phoebe was faster, snatching it in her free fist and stabbing her own blade hard through his hand, pinning it firmly to the wooden surface. Then, in one fluid movement, she vaulted over the table onto his lap and slit his throat with his own blade.

She sat there straddling him patiently, watching, until the stomach-turning gurgles coming from Jannick’s mouth and throat went silent. When he was finally still, she stood, removed her mother’s blood-coated necklace from his neck, and fastened it around her own. Then, she pried her father’s ring off of Jannick’s finger, wrenched the dagger out of his other hand, and turned on her heel, striding for the exit. She tossed Geralt’s dagger back to him as she brushed past without a word, her eyes still glowing brightly, face splattered heavily with blood, and she looked beautiful. Beautiful and deadly.

Geralt stepped outside just as she was tucking the ring into her saddlebag. He watched as she hoisted herself back into the saddle, and wondered what was sustaining her right now, after three taxing uses of magic and that fight. It was either adrenaline or rage- he wasn’t sure which. But he followed closely as she galloped back towards the village, then onward back to the castle. She dismounted and took the steps briskly.

But now that she’d had her vengeance, whatever was keeping her going- be it rage or adrenaline- apparently ran out, and the events of the day seemed to finally catch up with her. As soon as she reached the top step, she swayed, then her knees buckled. Geralt took the last three steps at once to catch her from behind before she hit the ground, her head lolling back on his shoulder, eyes closed. He hoisted her into his arms, debating what to do next as he carried her back down the stairs. Phoebe needed a bath, and a comfortable, quiet place to be for the next couple of days. He could either turn back towards Vallweir, or try to make it to the Inn at the Crossroads in Velen all in one go. If the horses had been fresh and well-rested, getting to Velen would be a non-issue, but they had been working hard today, and Geralt didn’t know if he could put them through an all-night ride to Velen.

He carefully lifted Phoebe into Rabbit’s saddle, before climbing on behind her. Holding her securely against him with an arm around her waist, he steered with his free hand as he whistled over his shoulder for Roach to follow. Then he set off back towards Vallweir, pushing the horses as hard as he felt they could handle. It was nearly midnight by the time they finally arrived at the inn, Phoebe still unconscious, the horses heaving and slick with sweat. Geralt gave the stablehand extra coin to hand-walk them and give them a cool dousing of water, as well as extra feed. Then he slung both his and Phoebe’s saddlebags over his shoulders, and carried Phoebe inside. The innkeep’s eyes widened at the sight of her, covered in blood as she was.

“Need a room and a bath, now,” Geralt greeted brusquely.

“What the devil happened?” the man asked warily, taking a step backward.

“Attacked by bandits,” he lied.

The innkeep opened his mouth like he wanted to probe more, but Geralt’s scowl must’ve made him think twice, because he snapped it shut again and snatched up a key from under the counter before gesturing for Geralt to follow him up the stairs. He led them to a door at the end of a narrow hallway and opened it onto a tight and sparse but still comfortable room, furnished with just a bed, a small fireplace, a desk, and a tub.

“Maids’ll be in with hot water in a moment,” he said curtly, then laid the key on the table and backed out of the room. When they were alone, Geralt set Phoebe carefully down in the desk chair and set about unlacing her boots, removing her gloves and weapons, and untying her hair. Then he carefully unclasped both hers and her mother’s necklaces from her neck. As he did so, he noticed that her mother’s necklace was on a much longer chain, the pendant falling down between her breasts, in contrast to her own pendant, which hung just below the dip of her throat. Crossing the room to the small basin of water for washing, he swished the necklaces around in it, cleaning her mother’s necklace of blood. Then he dried both necklaces off and lowered them carefully into his money pouch. Finally, he extracted her oil and comb from her saddlebag and laid them on the desk.

A moment later the maids arrived to fill the bath, which took no time at all, as this tub was much smaller than their huge one in Anchor. Once they began to file back out of the room, Geralt called three of them back, pressing some coin into each of their hands. They glanced at each other, then up at him, their eyes wide with uncertainty, as if worried he was about to ask them to do something depraved.

“Like you three to bathe her for me. Her things are on the desk there. I’ll be right outside the door.”

“As you say, sir,” they nodded, and their expressions of relief would’ve been comical if the situation weren’t so grave. He took his leave, saddlebags still slung over his shoulders in case any of the maids had sticky fingers. His first preference would obviously have been to tend to Phoebe himself, but he didn’t think she’d want him to be doing something as intimate as bathing her after today’s events. So he stood dutifully in front of the door, arms crossed over his chest, wondering what would happen when Phoebe woke up. Would she tell him she never wanted to see him again? Would she go back to Trievona and take up the helm as burgravine, all by herself? That thought made his stomach twist, though he knew she was more than capable.

He sighed, his heart feeling heavy with guilt. It was hard to imagine, in the current state of things, that they’d spent that morning wrapped around each other under furs in the wilderness, giddy with their newfound intimacy. He’d felt so close to her then, so sure of what he was doing. Now he felt further away than ever. He had to find a way to explain what had happened with Yennefer, to make her understand that he hadn’t done what she surely thought he had, but he knew that the priority now had to be simply supporting Phoebe in her grief. Anything else would have to wait until she was ready.

Eventually the door opened behind him and he stepped aside for the three maids to file out of the room, each of them eyeing him warily as they passed. Then he took a steadying breath and opened the door. He’d expected to find her still unconscious on the bed, so he stopped short at the sight of her sitting on the edge of it, wrapped in a towel that was tucked under her arms. She was facing away from him, shoulders slumped a little, but he could still see her face in profile as she stared blankly at the wall, running her comb idly through her dripping strands. He closed the door behind him and took a hesitant step forward, waiting for her to tell him to get the fuck out, but he wasn’t even sure she was aware of his presence.

“Phoebe…” he called softly, studying the soft lines of her shoulder blades, visible above the edge of the towel. She turned, slowly, to look at him, and his heart clenched. He’d never seen her looking so small and lost. It was a stark contrast to the unstoppable warrior of only a few hours earlier, who had bathed herself in the blood of her enemies. Now, her eyes were glistening with unshed tears, her pink lower lip quivering, and he somehow just knew that sending him away was the last thing on her mind. She just needed to be cared for.

Dropping their saddlebags, he crossed the room in two strides and lifted her into his lap with one arm under her knees and the other behind her back. He gathered her into himself, squeezing _almost_ too tight, but not quite. She pressed her face into his chest, sniffling, and soon her body was shaking with quiet sobs. He kept silent, just holding her, until they subsided again and she sat up slightly to wipe her eyes with the back of her hand. He took the opportunity to reach into his money pouch for her necklaces, drawing them out one by one and clasping them delicately around her neck. She didn’t say anything, just held her mother’s pendant gently between her fingers and studied it, her head down.

He gently shifted her back onto the bed. “Just taking my boots and weapons off,” he soothed at the look of protest in her eyes. He crossed to the desk and unbuckled his scabbard, setting it down next to her own and dropping his gauntlets on top of it. Then he pulled his boots off and shed his armor, leaving him in just his undershirt and braies. He didn’t really need a bath, since he hadn’t fought or even trained today, and so he climbed straight onto the bed, propping himself up against the headboard on one side of it and beckoning Phoebe to join him. She surprised him slightly when she shifted towards him and curled up on her side across the mattress, resting her head in his lap. He ran his fingers through her hair from root to end, combing it back from her forehead as she stared blankly towards his feet. He knew it was selfish, but he couldn’t help but feel a sense of gladness that she needed him right now, that even after what had transpired between them earlier, comfort was still something he could provide.

Abruptly, she reached up and wrapped her little hand around his wrist, pulling it down and hugging it into the valley between her breasts. He laid his palm flat on her upper chest near her collarbone, moving his thumb soothingly back and forth over her skin. He didn’t dare speak, too relieved that she would even let him touch her right now and perfectly content to hold her like this all night if that was what she wanted.

But after a time, it became clear that it wasn’t what she wanted. Or, rather, that it wasn’t _all_ she wanted. He was suddenly aware that Phoebe’s pulse was racing wildly under his hand, her chest rising and falling shallowly with her breaths. He opened his mouth to ask her if she was alright, but then she turned to look up at him, and his words died in his throat. Her irises were glowing- not in the cold, empty way they’d done earlier, but in that _other_ way. The way he’d grown so accustomed to seeing over the last few days. Her cheeks were flushed, her mouth slightly open as she held his hand in both of hers and tried to pull it down to her breast. Geralt gently pulled back, shaking his head uncertainly. He didn’t know if Phoebe was in the right frame of mind to be making this decision, given the complications between them. But she held on, her eyes wide, imploring.

“Please,” she said softly, reaching up to curl the fingers of one hand into the hair at the nape of his neck. It was the first word she’d spoken directly to him since she’d left their camp that afternoon, and as soon as it came out of her mouth he knew he’d be powerless to resist whatever words came after it. “I need to feel something good, even if it’s just for a few minutes. Please, just make me feel something other than this pain.”

He just stared at her for a second, wondering if heeding this request was the right thing to do. But the truth of it was, it didn’t matter. This was what she was asking for, and far be it from him to deny it to her.

He slipped his free hand underneath her neck, bending to give her a long, slow kiss. He wanted her to have plenty of time to put a stop to this if she so desired. But she didn’t seem to share his logic, immediately deepening the kiss and sitting up to climb into his lap. She frantically worked at the laces on his bastian, her hands trembling uncontrollably, and Geralt quickly covered them with his own to still her movements. They couldn’t do it this way, all frantic. He knew that in her current emotional state, she wouldn’t enjoy it like that, and in the end she would just feel worse. She needed a deep, prolonged distraction, not a frenzied, messy tryst.

He slowly shifted her off of his lap and removed his shirt and braies, discarding them on the floor by the bed. Taking his cue, she unwrapped her towel and added it to the pile of his things, leaving them both bare.

He reached for her, gently gathering her to him so that her back was pressed against his chest, and then leaned back against the pillows. Hooking his knees underneath hers, he spread them apart, her legs draped over the outsides of his own. Phoebe’s body tensed, her head lifting to examine their new position, and he pressed his lips to her ear.

“Just relax,” he murmured, spreading one hand reassuringly over her belly the way he knew she liked, while simultaneously guiding her head back to rest against his chest with a hand cupped around her throat. She took a deep breath, her body going slack as she exhaled slowly. “That’s it.” He dropped his voice to a near growl so that she’d feel it rumbling against her back. “Close your eyes.”

Once she obeyed, he began to trail his hands painstakingly over her skin, starting with her knees. He skimmed his palms up the hot, silken skin of her inner thighs, deliberately ignoring the sacred place between them as he continued on to trace her hipbones with his fingertips. Feather-light, he coasted slowly along the smooth skin on either side of her navel, up to the dip of her ribcage. Phoebe’s breaths were already growing short; he could feel how she resisted the impulse to squirm into his touch, her muscles twitching periodically in the midst of her effort to keep them still and relaxed.

“Nothing exists except for my body touching yours right now,” he instructed softly. “Don’t focus on anything else.” She nodded silently.

He inched his hands up towards her breasts, circling them lightly, his skin barely whispering over her puckered nipples. Her head jerked a little as she tried to push herself into his palms, but he moved with her to maintain the weightlessness of his touch. He ducked to lave the side of her neck with his tongue as he continued his teasing attention, biding his time. He wanted her to be craving him so badly that her mind and body had no room to feel or process anything else, before he moved on to the next thing. He tried to keep his breathing even as his body instinctively responded to having her draped over him like this, to the feeling of her supple flesh under his hands. His cock was fast filling with blood, lengthening and rising until it came to rest lightly against her dampening folds. She jolted slightly, a tiny, repressed whimper falling out of her mouth.

When she was panting soundly for him, her hands fisting into the coverlet on either side of their hips, her muscles tightening despite her battle to stay relaxed, he rewarded her with the firm contact she was seeking. Cupping her breasts, he slowly rolled her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, tugging slightly outward. Phoebe’s back arched away from his chest, the crown of her head pressing into his clavicle as her mouth fell open in a silent moan. He kept at it, twisting and pulling languidly at her flesh until it swelled and reddened under his fingers and she was positively writhing against him. With every undulation of her body, her silky, dripping cunt rubbed teasingly along his length, and he grit his teeth as his baser impulses fought for control.

He was intoxicated by the eroticism of what they were doing, which felt so different from their hard, performative, wildly impassioned lovemaking of the last two days. This was quiet, and unhurried, and all about sensation. They seemed to have reached an unspoken understanding to be as hushed as their passions would allow, the only sounds pervading the air being Phoebe’s panting and the occasional low moan. Almost as if they were hiding in their little bubble of pleasure from a terrifying specter of grief, which might swoop down on them at any loud noise or sudden movement.

Geralt drew one hand upwards, sliding over her breasts and upper chest, then up the column of her throat, until it reached her jaw, his index and middle finger curling over her chin to dip into the wet recesses of her mouth. He turned his face downwards, burying his nose in her hair and inhaling as she immediately closed her lips around his fingers and sucked. When his digits were thoroughly wet, he drew them back out of her mouth, inching her legs open further with his own before bringing his fingers down to her slit.

She sucked in a sharp breath through her teeth, one hand relinquishing its chokehold on the covers to fly up to the back of his head. He paused his movements, whispering to her again. “Relax for me.” He rubbed his nose back into her hair as she took a deep breath, then went boneless against him, the fist in his hair loosening and falling to cup the back of his neck instead. “Yes,” he rumbled approvingly in her ear. He brought his hand back to the apex between her thighs, slipping his fingers underneath his manhood to do so, which still throbbed lightly against her cunt, its head lined up perfectly with her already-swollen bud.

He caressed her slowly, running his fingertips along her warm, slippery folds, teasing her entrance, and lavishing attention on her most sensitive spot. Phoebe stifled her moan by biting her lip, her breaths coming long and hard through her nose, but she was still managing to remain limp over top of him, though he did feel a muscle twitch every now and then. He was facing his own struggles, having to suck in a deep breath and let his head fall back to collect himself as his movements inadvertently teased the length of his cock with the back of his hand.

When she was thoroughly drenched for him, his fingers coated in her slick, he decided they’d both waited long enough. He wrapped his hands under her thighs and lifted her along his body until the head of his cock slipped down to her entrance. Hoisted up slightly like this, her head now lay on his shoulder, and he paused to give her a worshipping open-mouthed kiss on the neck. Then, he slowly lowered her down onto his length. Neither of them could help their exclamations of pleasure as she enveloped him in her enslaving, vice-like heat. It was almost unbearable to stop and let her adjust, but he did it anyway, his grip tightening on her thighs with the effort. When she whimpered softly in need, he lifted her again, only this time when he lowered her, he set her down halfway along the length of his cock, giving him leeway to thrust.

Pressing his feet into the mattress for leverage, Geralt began to pump slowly into her, releasing her thighs to bring one hand back to her breast and the other to her dripping core. She hitched her knees up a little as soon as he released her, spreading them as wide as they would go and pushing her chest more soundly into his hand. He fondled her teasingly in both places at once, one hand toying lightly with her nipple while the other slipped over and around her nub in no particular rhythm, keeping her suspended in a state of aimless rapture. The angle of penetration in this position was rather shallow, but the intimacy of being pressed together so completely, as well as the unfettered access he had to her entire body, made it so that his stomach was already coiling with the need to climax. She must’ve been facing a similar predicament, for she grew wetter and wetter around his cock until her channel was so slippery that the temptation to piston in and out of her at lightning speed was almost irresistible.

But resist he did, rocking into her slowly but purposefully and falling into a matching circular rhythm around her bundle of nerves with his fingers. With his other hand, he gently palmed her breast, touching lightly and evenly for a while before rolling the nipple sharply between his thumb and forefinger. She jolted against him, clapping her hand over his own with a small exclamation- _“Oh!”_

He thought she would immediately jerk her hand away again from the intimacy of clutching his own this way, but to his surprise and delight, she did just the opposite. Lacing her fingers with his own over her soft flesh, she began to follow his movements, and soon they were working over her breast in tandem, pinching at her nipple in a slow pattern that naturally came to match his thrusts.

With every wave of movement and sensation, Phoebe released a quiet, breathy moan, her body beginning to undulate slowly into his hands. Panting hotly, she turned her face up towards his, opening her fiery eyes to find his own for the first time since he’d instructed her to close them. Geralt immediately dropped his mouth to claim hers, their lips moving with each other amorously, tongues weaving together in a way that sent him reeling. He hadn’t allowed himself to hope for true lovemaking after all that had happened that afternoon; instead he’d expected he would essentially be providing a service to Phoebe. But this was nothing if not making love, and the tenderness between them made his heart swell, giving him hope that maybe all wasn’t lost for their relationship.

His breathing was growing heavy, his body burning up with the tightening coil behind his navel, which was even harder to manage now that he was drowning in Phoebe’s mouth. He could tell that her orgasm was sneaking up on her slowly as her channel very gradually began to tighten around him, and he felt the muscles of her back begin to tense against his chest. He increased his tempo imperceptibly, by degrees, and with it her walls narrowed, little by little, until her body was damp with sweat and he could hear her heart racing fast as a bird’s.Geralt’s controlled pace was the only thing keeping him from exploding inside her this instant, so he didn’t give her any extra help by driving into her harder or speeding up the circle of his fingers on her slippery bud. Instead, he let her inch along towards her peak on her own, her frustration evident in the way she bucked shallowly against his movements.

Then, for a long moment, she held her breath, her legs trembling uncontrollably on either side of his own, her hand clutching his so hard that it was painful. Geralt kept his rhythm, leisurely caressing her tongue with his own, waiting patiently for the first flutters of her orgasm on his cock.

The second he finally felt them, he let go.

He drove into her furiously, his fingers working over her her bundle of nerves at a dizzying pace. Simultaneously, he tweaked her nipple, hard. He was richly rewarded when her walls slammed down on him so hard that his orgasm was instantly ripped from him. And yet, even still, they swallowed each other’s moans, the evidence of their ecstasy found not in their voices, but in the quivering convulsion of their bodies, their heaving breaths, the ferocity of their kissing, the sweat covering their skin. They let themselves be carried by the waves of their release, their mouths continuing their sensual dance until the storm of pleasure had passed, leaving them limp and spent.

Geralt reached down and hooked his hands under Phoebe’s thighs again, lifting her gently to release his softening cock. Then he let his head fall back against the pillows, shutting his eyes and exhaling deeply. When both of their heart rates had slowed back to normal, he held her against him and rolled them to lay on their sides, drawing the covers up over them. He was craning his head over his shoulder to extinguish the candles when he felt her soft hand on his cheek. When he looked down, he was met with wide, tearful eyes. There was apprehension behind them, as if she were afraid of his reaction to whatever she was about to say.

“Geralt,” she whispered, and he shivered slightly when her fingernails scratched soothingly through his beard. “Axii me to sleep.”

He blinked at her, stunned. He’d never used any sign on someone dear to him, and least of all Axii. He shook his head. “I can’t,” he croaked.

“Please.” She turned fully onto her back and cupped his face with both hands now. “I won’t be able to sleep on my own. I’m too scared to have nightmares.”

He shook his head again, eyebrows furrowing doubtfully. “I can’t do that to you, Phoebe. It wouldn’t be right.” He tried to turn his face away, but she tightened her grip.

“I need this. I wouldn’t be asking you if I didn’t need this.” When he searched the cognac depths of her eyes, he knew it was true.

He sighed, then lifted his hand and signed Axii. It hurt his heart when her eyes went blank. He hated seeing them that way. He stroked her cheek gently with his thumb, lowering his head to press his forehead to hers. “Sleep, Phoebe,” he murmured. Her eyelids slowly fluttered closed, her hands falling away from his face. He maneuvered her carefully back onto her side and wrapped his arms around her, burying his nose in the back of her hair.

After the hurricane of emotions over the last twelve hours, it didn’t take long for him to follow her into darkness.

~

Three days. That’s how long they stayed holed up in Vallweir, coping with the initial throes of Phoebe’s loss.

That first night, she had awoken three times from nightmares after he’d Axii’d her, and each time she’d reach for him, her little hands searching blindly in the darkness until he’d pull her to him and soothe her body with his own. The second night had been much the same, and so had the third. In between their compulsive, grief-fueled joinings, she slept, or stared silently into the distance, her eyes haunted and far away. She didn’t get out of bed, or even get dressed- not even in smallclothes. She seemed to be worse at night, needing him to bewitch her to sleep with Axii, whereas during the day she was able to sleep without his help, as long as he brought her to the brink of unconsciousness with a powerful orgasm first.

On the second day, as she’d slept, he’d ridden back to Trievona and laid her parents to rest in the Lemmare family crypt. He didn’t share this with her yet, not wanting to bring up the subject of her parents without her raising it first, but he knew that whenever she finally went back, she would appreciate them being in their final resting place instead of sprawled across the entrance hall of the castle. He could do that much for her, at least.

They didn’t speak much, doing most of their communication with their bodies. But nonetheless, Geralt did feel a strange closeness to her. He knew that soon, when Phoebe was ready, they would need to address what had happened with Yennefer. But to his relief, for the time being it seemed that in terms of intimacy, he and Phoebe were on solid ground. He just wished there was more he could do for her, to ease her anguish. He was so relieved to not be simply kicked out of her life, he would do anything she asked of him right now.

On the second night, he’d tentatively brought up what came next in their journey, telling her that whatever she chose, he would support her how he could, and making it clear that she had a place beside him if she wanted to come with him to Velen. Her eyes had remained riveted on his own as he spoke, so he knew she’d been listening, but she said nothing when he finished- just sighed, her eyes dropping to her fingers, which fiddled with her mother’s pendant.

On the third and final night, she’d been on fire, making love to him like her whole life depended on it, and not laying down to rest until they’d brought each other to their peak four times. He’d thought maybe she was starting to come back to herself a little, that maybe the following day she’d finally talk to him about what she wanted to do next.

That’s why he felt so out of sorts now, as he glanced over at her straight-backed form, moving slightly with Rabbit’s walking stride. When he’d awoken that morning, it had been to a cold bed, no sign of Phoebe or her belongings anywhere in their small room. He’d lurched to his feet and dressed in record time, bolting down to the stables with his saddlebags slung over his shoulder, only to find her there, fastening her weapons to her saddle, both horses fully groomed, tacked, and ready.

He’d stepped towards her carefully. “Phoebe?”

“Morning,” she’d said briskly, not looking up as she buckled her silver sword into place. “I got some supplies from the innkeep and paid for our room. We should have more than enough water and provisions to get us to Velen.”

“Hey,” he’d said softly, reaching out to touch her arm and feeling stung when she stepped back out of reach. “You alright?”

“Fine,” she’d replied casually, and she finally looked up at him. His hackles had risen when he saw that her eyes were stony, inscrutable. Her usual self-protecting walls had been erected again. Only now, for the first time in weeks, he was back on the outside of them. His gut rippled with a foreboding panic.

“Listen-”

“We should set off as soon as possible,” she’d cut him off, turning away to finish fastening her spear. “It’s a long road.”

He’d sighed, but turned away nonetheless, setting about attaching his saddlebags and readying himself to depart. He’d told himself that once they were alone on the road, maybe she would loosen up a bit.

But she hadn’t. They were an hour and a half out from Vallweir, and she’d positioned herself all the way across the road from him, a stark contrast to how they usually rode, as close as they possibly could barring the horses’ legs tangling with one another. She hadn’t spoken a single word to him, hadn’t even looked at him, in fact. He wondered if she was feeling bothered by the Yen thing again, and decided to try and broach the subject. He guided Roach closer, but still not as close as usual.

“Phoebe, listen,” he began, “about Yennefer-”

“It doesn’t matter now,” she interrupted. She looked over at him, smiling, but it wasn’t a warm or happy smile. It didn’t even come close to reaching her eyes. “Being together was a mistake,” she continued, and he could only stare, not believing his ears. “It clouded the issue of what’s really important, and I’m sorry for initiating it. I love Avallac’h, and you belong with Yennefer. Right now we need to focus on finding Ciri, and I need to make sure that Avallac’h is alright. That’s the whole reason we started traveling together in the first place, so let’s just stick to that from now on.”

“You’re lying,” he said bluntly. “You stopped seeing Avallac’h that way the moment you kissed me, I know you did. Don’t do this. What happened with Yen isn’t what you think-”

“I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong idea,” she said, raising her voice to drown out his words. “And I thank you for comforting me these last few days, truly. But I can’t afford to be distracted right now. I need to help my friends, and then I have a burgraviate to run.”

Geralt was stunned into silence, his heart constricting painfully. Part of him wanted to keep arguing with her, but a bigger part of him couldn’t stand to hear any more words of rejection. Each one felt like a knife in his gut. He suddenly felt extremely foolish for thinking that they’d be able to move on from what had happened that last day in the woods without consequence. He’d seen this woman- _his_ woman, for he refused to call her anything different- make a man eat dirt just for insulting him. He’d seen her massacre her parents’ murderers. Phoebe wasn’t one to let wrongs go unpunished, and even though nothing had actually happened between him and Yennefer, he had a sickening suspicion that telling her as much wouldn’t change her mind.

 _Guess it makes sense now why she made love to me last night like it was the last time,_ he thought numbly. _She knew that it_ was _the last time._

A wave of nausea slammed into him at the thought of never touching or being close to Phoebe again. Just like that, he’d lost the trust and admiration of yet another woman dear to him. He was used to this by now, so why did he feel so sick? Why did it feel like a trunk full of iron had been dropped on his chest? Even as he wondered, he knew the answer.

_Phoebe’s different. She didn’t let my reputation precede me- she expected the best from me instead of the worst. Made me feel like maybe I deserve more in this life than misery._

He couldn’t lose that. He refused to. He wouldn’t argue with Phoebe right now; he could see in the set of her shoulders that her mind was made up. But he _would_ prove her wrong. No stepping back and admitting defeat, like he usually did when the women in his life pushed him away.

He would show Phoebe that he was as good and worthy as she had always believed him to be.

And he wouldn’t back down until she was in his arms again.


	12. PART 2: THE CHURNING WATERS OF FATE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, guys. first and foremost, i'm so sorry for disappearing these last few months. quarantine burnout/depression hit me hard, and i suddenly just had no motivation or inspiration for anything. i'd sit down to write this chapter, and just couldn't squeeze anything out. i know i usually respond individually to comments, but please know i appreciated the responses i got on the last chapter more than you know, and i'd also like to thank anyone who left kudos during this dry spell. i'm hoping to be back on track now, and i'm going to do my best to adhere to a chapter-a-month schedule from here on out, but bear with me.
> 
> we're back in the present for this chapter, which also marks the beginning of part 2. while it's not quite as action-packed as the last couple of chapters, it's important nonetheless. i hope you guys enjoy it, as always drop a note and let me know what you think :) xoxo

**PART TWO - THE CHURNING WATERS OF FATE**

_Burgraviate of Trievona, Temeria_

_December 1276_

_She recognizes where she is, crouched on this particular branch of this particular enormous, ancient tree. How could she forget? Even if she were to be made a dryad all over again, she’s sure this particular memory could never be wiped from her mind. And yet, something’s wrong. Not on the surface- her bare hands are clamped to the bark just as they should be, her entire body rigid with concentration, the pressure in her head becoming unbearable with the effort of using her magic this way._

_But something’s off, because when she looks down, she can’t see the ground. The tree trunks stretch down interminably, disappearing into a void of black so terrifying that she’s suddenly trembling. But she can still hear it all, the sounds of steel hitting steel, Geralt’s voice drifting up to her ears, though she can’t make heads or tails of what he’s saying. She’s too far gone already, her soul clinging to her body by only a thread. Death is near, she knows it is, but still she hangs on, channeling her magic until the ground begins to quake. Her skull feels as if it could split open, the dull, pressing pain in her eyes growing, growing, growing in intensity until a jolt of panic shoots through her because they feel like they’ll burst any second._

_She’s had to relive this moment many times, so she knows what’s coming, and she waits for it patiently. Very soon now, judging by the unconscionable agony just beginning its explosion in her eyeballs. But the moment she’s waiting for doesn’t come._

_Instead, the pain vanishes as if it were never there to begin with, and she’s suddenly falling into the blackness below, the wind whipping by her until she lands, fully naked, on a soft surface with a muffled thump. She’s momentarily stunned, so it takes her a second to realize the soft surface is a bed, in a room she doesn’t recognize. She can hear the crackling of a roaring fire somewhere in the room, but she can’t see it._

_Because her vision is full of Geralt._

_He’s on top of her, inside of her, his scalding, naked skin pressed into every inch of her. He’s drinking from her mouth like a man dying of thirst, making love to her so passionately, so adoringly, that she’s instantly about to come. The exquisite stroke of him deep in her core is making her burn from the inside, making her toes curl and her fingernails dig into his back. It doesn’t even occur to her to think it strange, to be tangled with the witcher like this when she hasn’t felt his touch in years. No, somehow, at this moment, it’s the most natural thing in the world._

_Geralt drops his lips down to murmur in her ear, his voice deep, seductive._

_“Was it worth the pain?”_

_“What?” she asks, her voice sounding far away to her own ears as she’s towed up that familiar mountain of unbelievable pleasure. He continues to fill her, over and over again, without missing a beat, and it’s all she can do just to focus on his words._

_“Are you prepared to do it again?”_

_She shakes her head, dazed, as her muscles begin to tense. Her words come out strangled, whispered. “I don’t know.”_

_“Doesn’t matter. Too late now.”_

_“What are you talking about?” Her voice trembles as she feels herself about to crest that mountain, feels herself about to free fall into the explosion of ecstasy that will rise to meet her any second now._

_And then it finally happens. But it’s not an explosion of ecstasy that rises to meet her._

_It’s the explosion of pressure in her eyes and head from earlier, surging back up so suddenly that an agonized scream is automatically ripped from her throat. She presses her palms to her eyelids, not even aware of Geralt’s form on top of her anymore as the ground quakes hard enough to crack the room’s foundation, her magic being wrenched from her out of her control._

_As the agony and pressure reaches its pinnacle, two familiar things happen._

_She feels a sickening pop in her eyes._

_And at that same exact moment, countless enormous tree roots burst up through the stone floor all around her._

_The din is unbearable as the roots impale all in their path: the bed, the walls, even Geralt and herself, the ancient, snakelike limbs ripping through their chests-_

She wakes up gasping, and immediately rolls to the edge of the bed to vomit into her chamber pot. She’s drenched in freezing cold sweat, the sheets sticking to her skin uncomfortably as she pushes herself upright and tries to catch her breath. The phantom pain behind her eyes is beginning to fade, and she shudders as she remembers the real thing, practicing her old breathing exercises in an effort to clear her mind of the excruciating memories.

It's a nightmare she’d gone two years without experiencing, up until he showed up two weeks ago. Since then, not a single night has passed where it didn’t rear its ugly head. But it’s evolved, now. The scene in bed with Geralt is a new addition, and one that has made the nightmare even more harrowing, if that was possible. She squeezes her thighs together to quell the insistent throb between them, leftover from the vividness of Geralt’s body melded with her own. Dropping her face into her hands, she tries to get a grip on herself.

She hates how weak she’s been feeling since he arrived. It’s as if she’s regressed back to that first year without him, and all of the progress she had made, all of the strength she had built up, is just gone. She had worked herself up to five hours of dreamless sleep every night, but now she’s back down to two or three hours of fitful slumber. She had gotten to the point where she only thought of him once or twice every day, and now she’s back to near-insanity with how hard it is to get him out of her mind. She usually relishes this time of year, where her days are quiet and she has time for herself. But now, she wishes she were busier. It would be easier if she were preoccupied with her duties from sunup to sundown like usual, instead of living this quiet, leisurely, homebound life with Geralt. It makes her think about things she’s forbidden herself from thinking about. It makes her wonder what it would’ve been like to have a _real_ homebound life with him. A married life.

The truth is, other than the nightmares, it hasn’t been so bad, having him here. He _fits in,_ somehow. He’s helpful, and everyone in the castle loves him, Babette especially. And Phoebe is loathe to admit it, but it’s a welcome change, having a companion in the castle. Ciri spends every winter here, of course, but she doesn’t stay on the whole time. She still frequently goes off for days or weeks at a time to take contracts. Geralt, on the other hand, would be like Phoebe’s shadow if she let him; he seems to think that any moment not spent in her presence is a moment wasted, and she’s uncomfortable with how little that bothers her. They’re nowhere near what they once were, of course. Things are still tense, eggshells are still tread on. Distance is staunchly kept. But the company is nice. The routine is nice.

And she hates that.

She’s tried her best to remain stoic, keeping all of her turmoil hidden under the surface, with the exception of her outburst the day after he showed up. She thinks she’s done a pretty good job, but she still can’t help but wonder how much of it the witcher can sense. He’s a legendary tracker, after all. But if he’s noticed anything, he hasn’t commented on it, and for that she’s grateful.

Sighing heavily with the knowledge that sleep won’t be coming back to her any time soon, she peels back the covers and gets out of bed. It’s just before dawn, she can tell by the lighter blue of the sky as the sun begins to threaten the horizon. Shivering with the early winter cold and her sweat-damp smallclothes, she stokes the fire in the fireplace, crouching in front of the flames until she feels a bit less frozen and clammy. Then she rises, changes into fresh smallclothes, and begins to dress. She needs to do something, to get out of this castle and clear her head.

She descends the stairs silently, making her way down to the deserted kitchens and out the back entrance. Crunching across the hardened ground of the rear courtyard to the stables, she takes a deep breath of frigid, clean morning air. It hurts her lungs, but she likes the ache. It’s invigorating.

Rabbit flattens his ears at her grouchily when she rouses him from sleep, but perks up at the sight of the hefty bucket of oats in her arms. By lantern light, she goes about tacking him up quickly and quietly, anxious to get away from the castle before anyone wakes. When she’s finally out of the courtyard and in the woods, she breathes a sigh of relief.

She lets Rabbit warm up at a trot as they make their way down the winding path to the Lemmare family crypt. Or rather, what used to be the crypt. Maybe it was the dryad in her, but when she got back years ago, the first thing she did was have the ceiling knocked out, giving the previously underground space back to the elements. She couldn’t stand the thought of her parents being in some dank, dark stone chamber for eternity. She wanted them to feel the sun and the rain, to hear the wind rustling through the trees. The previously damp and suffocating space is now a beautiful, sunken crater covered in moss and drenched in filtered sunlight.

Unable to ride through these woods without stopping here, she dismounts and slips through the gate, descending the steps into the verdant resting place of her ancestors. She sighs as she approaches the two sarcophagi belonging to her parents, brushing the dead leaves off of the white marble. It’s yet another complication to her feelings about Geralt, the fact that he entombed her parents here for her. It’s a kindness that she’s already repaid tenfold; she owes him nothing, not even gratitude at this point. And yet, to this day, she feels a twinge in her heart every time she thinks of him riding here on his own and painstakingly laying to rest the bones of two people he never even met. He didn’t even tell her he did it; she only discovered it when she finally came back. So she doesn’t owe him gratitude, but she feels grateful nonetheless. She can’t help it. And to feel gratitude toward someone for whom you also feel hatred is a volatile cocktail.

She turns away and starts back up the steps as she feels her ire rising, refusing to sully this sacred place with it. It’s insufferable, how _good_ Geralt can be. She wishes he were the monster so many think him to be. She wishes she didn’t know better. It would be easier, hating him, if that were so. But it isn’t so.

She mounts Rabbit again and pushes him into an all-out gallop.

When she’s deep enough in the forest that she’s sure no one will hear her, she screams.

~

Geralt is watching from a window seat in his room when Phoebe finally rides through the front gate two hours after sunrise. Most often, she lets him accompany her on her morning ride- it’s become an unspoken ritual since he got here. He knows what a courtesy it is for her to do such a thing. She’s up well before sunrise each morning; he’s heard her stirring, gasping awake from some nightmare or other. A normal person wouldn’t hear it through the thick stone wall separating their rooms, but he can, and he’s beginning to suspect it’s only partially because of his mutated senses. Maybe it’s his guilty conscience, maybe it’s because he’s worried about her, maybe it’s because it’s _Phoebe._ But whatever the reason, he’s finding that he’s bizarrely in-tune with her, even in sleep, and so he knows that when she emerges from her room at half past seven to go ride with him, it’s not because she only just awoke. It’s because she _waited._

But some days, like today, she can’t seem to wait. She’s out of her room while it’s still dark, right after he first hears her stirring, and when she comes back hours later, she seems exhausted.

Well, more exhausted than usual.

He didn’t notice it when he first got here- he was too bowled over by the fact of even being in her presence again- but over the last two weeks, the changes in Phoebe have become impossible to ignore. It’s not that he expected her to stay exactly the same, of course. People grow, they evolve. The problem is, these changes aren’t growth or evolution. They aren’t good or healthy. And what he’s seeing concerns him.

For one thing, she’s practically skin and bones. She always had a true dryad’s body, lithe and slender, but when Geralt first met her she had a sleek, toned layer of healthy muscle underneath the skin that made her physique more athletic than waif-like. Now, the angles of her body are hard, her cheekbones more sharply defined than he remembers, and after seeing her eating habits over the last two weeks, it’s clear why. She barely eats a thing.

The dark circles under her eyes are a testament to the fact that she barely sleeps, either. Though he often rises with her in the dark hours of each morning, she is always still awake when he goes to sleep at night; he can hear the papery turn of a book’s page or the scratching of a quill when he hones his witcher senses. The paltry amount of sleep _he_ gets as a witcher would be a detriment to any normal person’s health, even if that person were a dryad. And she’s sleeping _less_ than him.

But it’s not just the physical changes that have him worried. It’s the other changes, too. It’s the fact that contrary to the norms of aging, the smile lines on either side of her mouth are _less_ prominent now than they were four years ago, and true enough, he hasn’t seen her smile more than three times since he got here. It’s the fact that her eyes, once so bright and expressive, are unwaveringly cool and stony. It’s the fact that where once her capricious personality turned everything into a joke, now she’s always serious, and though her sense of humor is still very much there, it’s dark and straight-faced.

She isn’t the same Phoebe he knew, and he finds himself wondering what the hell happened to make her change this way. He knows he put her through hell the last time they saw each other, but after all was said and done he had convinced himself that this was _Phoebe,_ the strong, the unbreakable, and that she would have no problem bouncing back and forgetting all about him. Believing as much made his own guilt easier to bear. But now, seeing her after all this time, he has to wonder what’s been going on with her since that ill-fated last meeting. He has to wonder if she ever forgot about him at all, even for a second. And he thinks he knows exactly who to ask.

He waits until he hears Phoebe’s footfalls pass by his door and into her chambers before he emerges, knowing that she’ll be occupied for some time with bathing and dressing. When he descends the three flights of stairs to the kitchens, the person he’s looking for greets him with a warm smile.

“Master Witcher.”

“Morning, Babette,” he nods, seating himself at the scrubbed wooden table. She bustles around for a moment before laying a plate of bread and cheese in front of him.

“I expected to bring you your breakfast in the solar, like usual.” She quirks a curious eyebrow.

“Switched it up on you,” he smiles, clearing his throat. “Actually, wanted to ask you something.” She inclines her head cheerfully at him over her shoulder as she stirs something in a large pot over the fire. “What happened after Phoebe got back from Kaer Morhen?”

Babette’s face drops, her hand stilling immediately on the ladle in the pot. She turns to face Geralt fully, narrowing her eyes at him in suspicion. “Why you askin’ ‘bout that, of all things?”

He gestures upwards, towards Phoebe’s chambers. “Something’s not right with her. She’s changed, and I just want to know what’s been going on these past few years. I know it started with Kaer Morhen.” He decides it’s probably best to withhold exactly _how_ he knows that, and he feels unspeakable relief when Babette doesn’t ask.

“Well, I s’pose I can’t argue with that…” She sighs heavily, her expression grave as she settles herself in the seat across from him and folds her hands on the table. “Now, let me start by sayin’ I knew Her Ladyship from when she was born. I was ‘ousekeeper to her parents when they was still in charge, Melitele bless their souls. Never seen a more precocious child, always runnin’ about, gettin’ into some mess or other, an’ may the gods favor the poor soul who had to be the one to scold her, with that sharp tongue of hers.”

Geralt chuckles. That sharp tongue is what drew him to Phoebe in the first place.

Babette goes on, a wistful smile on her lips. “Always ‘ad true spirit, Lady Phoebe did, an’ a real warmth, too. When she come back after the bandits had killed her poor mother and father, first thing she did was track me an’ Erik down, ask us to come back to our posts. It was really somethin’, seein’ ‘er all grown up- we’d all thought she was dead by that point. She tracked down every family that’d escaped when the bandits took over, brought ‘em back. Now, I thought I’d seen true loyalty in my day when her mother and father held the Burgraviate, but Lady Phoebe… I reckon anyone in the village would gladly die for her, after the care she took to rebuild this place. It all went well for a while, until she decided to go to Kaer Morhen.” The wistful smile vanishes, and chord of guilt shoots through Geralt’s stomach.

“What happened when she got back, exactly?”

“Well, the first thing was, she didn’ come back with Rabbit. That set me hackles to risin’ straight off. If you know anythin’ about Her Ladyship, you know she loves that horse as if it were her child.” He nods. “It was Lord Avallac’h brung her back, through one of them portals, an’ I’ll never forget the look of her. Couldn’ even stand on her own- he had to carry her. White as a sheet, she was, an’ her eyes… ain’t ever saw anythin’ like it before, and never seen the like since. The whites were full of red, like they had turned to blood.”

Geralt suppressed a shudder as he recalled those blood-red eyes, recalled the nauseating fear that overwhelmed him when he’d seen Phoebe in that state himself. Babette went on, unnoticing.

“She stayed in bed for weeks, only lettin’ Lord Avallac’h see her, and Lady Cirilla when she finally turned up. Even when she finally got back on her feet, I had to force her to eat, an’ she barely slept. The nightmares she had… She’d wake up positively sceamin’.” She shakes her head. “She’s never spoken a word about whatever happened up in those cursed mountains, but she ain’t ever been the same since. Puts on a good front when Lady Cirilla or Lord Avallac’h are around, but I’ll tell you, Master Witcher, I worry about that girl. Skin and bones, she is, and I reckon she still ain’t sleepin’ more than four hours a night, either.”

He nods in agreement. “Thinking I should talk to her about it. It’s not healthy, her going on like this.”

Babette raises an eyebrow as she pushes herself to her feet again and turns back towards the hearth. “Do what you will, but tread lightly,” she warns, picking up the ladle again. “That tongue is still sharp as anythin’.”

He expects to find her in the solar like always, so when he opens the door to a cold and empty room, he pauses, perplexed. Turning on his heel, he heads up the stairs towards her bedroom and knocks on the door, repeating the action after a few seconds of silence. “Phoebe.” Again, silence. Pausing to think, he decides there’s one last place to check. Galloping back down the steps, he strides out the back door to the stables, intending to see if Rabbit is still in his stall. He’s dismayed to see that while the snowy gentle giant is munching happily on his hay, the stall next to his, which usually houses a handsome jet-black palfrey, is empty. Geralt tacks Roach up swiftly and leads her out into the courtyard, where he nods at Erik in greeting as he mounts.

“See where the Burgravine went?”

~

“Thank you, Amandine,” she smiles, accepting the proffered mug of earthy-sweet nettle tea. She moves towards the window, blowing idly on the steaming liquid, and watches as Jaspre tends to the animals in the barnyard. She’s been worried about having him here, Babette’s misgivings having wormed their way into her own mind, but she also wants to prove everyone wrong about him. So, she’s decided the best way forward is to keep an eye on things. Check in once in a while, make sure everything’s going as it should.

“So, has it all been well, with him here?”

“Yes, Your Ladyship.”

Phoebe turns to meet Amandine’s gaze, and notices that she’s wringing her hands nervously, her rain-blue eyes glued to the worn floorboards. She is enormous, her swollen belly over-ripe, ready to pop any day now. “Are you sure? Because if anything should trouble you, you need only tell me and I’ll find someone else.” She waits, but her subject still steadfastly refuses to meet her gaze. “Amandine, look at me.”

Finally, blue meets amber. “All is well, My Lady, I promise,” she answers, but her smile is tight and tense, and doesn’t reach her eyes. _There’s something she's not telling me,_ Phoebe thinks wearily. Her instinct is to push harder, but she’s tired, so tired. The lack of sleep is catching up with her, and her hard ride earlier this morning didn't help things, either. Suddenly, all she wants is to be out of these riding clothes and curled up by the fire with a book. She can check on Amandine again in a few days, when she has more energy to pry.

“Alright,” she sighs. “But remember what I said. Just say the word.” She drains most of her tea, ignoring the scald to her throat, and sets the mug on the table. “Be well,” she smiles in farewell with a hand on Amandine’s shoulder.

“Melitele bless you, My Lady,” Amandine breathes, grasping Phoebe’s hand with both of hers.

Phoebe’s relieved breath of crisp winter air on Amandine’s doorstep is short-lived, because when she looks up, it’s to find Geralt and Roach, waiting next to her mount. Her gaze drifts automatically over Geralt's strong form, sending a twist through her stomach as her mind flashes back to her earlier nightmare, where his body was entwined intoxicatingly with hers. Her chest tightens with a cocktail of emotions that’s become all too familiar over the past fortnight- anxiety, excitement, annoyance. She arches an unsmiling eyebrow at him as she makes her way stiffly towards her palfrey. “Just couldn’t stay away, could you?”

The corners of his mouth twitch slightly in amusement. “Guess not.” He eyes her gleaming black palfrey as she swings up into the saddle. “Weird, seeing you on a horse that isn’t Rabbit.”

She strokes the palfrey’s neck as they set off down the road at a walk. “His name is Onyx. I came across him in Novigrad, and he reminded me of my father’s horse from when I was little. I bought him from his owner on the spot. He’s mostly for Erik to use, but I ride him whenever Rabbit needs a break.” She veers off the road into the woods, wanting to steer clear of the village. She’s worn too thin right now; she doesn’t want anyone to ask her for anything as she rides by.

“Take it that means you had a good ride this morning, then.”

She looks at him, a chord of something almost contrite shooting through her, but she stifles it quickly. “Yeah. Sorry for not waiting for you, I-”

“Not a problem. I slept late, anyway.”

She nods, and for a few uncomfortable seconds, only the chirping of the forest and the crunching of the horses’ hooves can be heard. “So, what brings you down here, anyway? Something wrong?”

“No, uh, just wanted to talk.” He clears his throat awkwardly, and she’s suddenly on edge.

“About?”

“Look, no easy way to say this, but I’m worried about you, and so is Babette.”

She sighs heavily, rolling her eyes, her lower jaw jutting forward in bitter disbelief. _The fucking nerve, to lecture me when he’s the reason I’m like his to begin with._ She takes a subtle deep, stabilizing breath as he talks, trying to keep herself in check.

“You’re skin and bones. You’re barely eating or sleeping, and that’s not like you. Know it’s not my place, but what you’re doing, it’s not healthy-”

She can’t help but to glare hotly at him as something small inside her snaps, her voice pure venom. “Well, what did you expect, Geralt?”

He seems stunned, eyes wide. “What d’you mean?”

She tries to rein herself in, to push everything back down, but her mind and body are betraying her, the words lashing harshly off her tongue like a whip. “I practically _died_ for you. More than that, I was _ready_ to die for you. And you just-” She cuts herself off, regaining a modicum of control before the rest of that sentence can make itself known. “What the fuck did you expect would happen after that?”

“Guess I expected you to forget about it. To just move on.”

She feels sick, her eyes suddenly stinging. “Like you did, you mean.”

“No, that’s not-”

“Which just goes to show how little this all meant to you. Something to just ‘forget about and move on’.” Her voice is starting to waver in spite of herself, which only ratchets up her anger further. She can’t _believe_ that after all this time, he can still rile her so easily.

“Phoebe-”

“You know what? You’re right.” She gathers up her reins as the tears begin to blur her vision. She needs to get out of here before they fall. “It _isn’t_ your place. And the next time you presume to speak to me about my health and well-being, _this-”_ she gestures towards the castle and her surrounding lands- “won’t be your place, either.”

She launches Onyx into a sprinting gallop with her heels, tearing through the trees back towards home.

~

It’s near midnight, and Geralt has paced the same circuit around his room so many times that it must be worn into the stone floor by now. What he’s searching for is clarity- some semblance of a plan to fix things between him and Phoebe- but it seems to forever elude him, and he’s beginning to feel a damning hopelessness in his gut.

In so many ways, it’s been the easiest thing ever, living here with Phoebe these last weeks. Indeed, it almost scares him how easy it’s been, settling into a calm routine, a peaceful life, and he isn’t quite prepared to examine what that might mean for his identity as a witcher. He’s stopped needing the previously ever-present security blanket of his weapons on his back without even realizing it, leaving them to collect dust on the trunk at the foot of his bed, likely going dull from disuse. He’s stopped staying awake for days on end for no reason. He's even stopped wearing his armor every day- though he still dons his favorite Wolven and Feline sets on occasion- opting instead for more practical doublets and breeches that Babette provided for him. He eats three square meals a day, reads more than he ever has in his life, and can’t remember the last time he had blood or monster innards splattered on him. And it works.

It works, and it feels almost perfect, except for the one missing puzzle piece, which, incidentally, is also the most vital. Phoebe.

No matter how many hours they spend reading in the solar, or how many rides they take through the woods; no matter how many state matters he helps her with or meals they share in the dining room, he can’t truly connect with her. She won’t let him. There are times he thinks he’s getting closer, times where he can sense that she wants to let him in again, but she always stops herself. And then, today, he had to go and dismantle what little progress they _had_ made. He wants to kick himself, because he knows how much harder it’ll be to get that iota of progress back, now that it’s gone.

Suddenly the room feels too close. He’s been cooped up in it too many hours, the blazing fire making the air thick. He slips out the door into the hall, pulling it closed silently behind him, but pauses when he hears a sound. A voice, so soft that a normal person’s ears wouldn’t be able to catch it.

Looking down the hall, he sees that the door to Phoebe’s personal library, housed in the castle’s spire, is ajar, a shaft of light spilling out across the stone floor. And through the narrow opening, her voice continues to drift to his ears, humming at first, then singing. As Geralt’s feet carry him slowly towards the door, the lilt becomes clearer, and he recognizes the words. He peers through the door to see Phoebe, her back to him, clad in a floor length velvet dressing gown of deep blue, her hair cascading loosely down her back. She’s perusing the shelves, her fingers reaching out to finger a book’s spine once in a while as she sings distractedly:

_“My breast is cold as clay,_

_my breath is earthly strong,_

_and if you kiss my cold clay lips,_

_your days they won’t be long._

_How oft on yonder grave, sweetheart,_

_where we were want to walk,_

_the fairest flower that e’er I saw_

_has withered to a stalk._

_When will we meet again, sweetheart,_

_when will we meet again?_

_When the autumn leaves that fall from trees_

_are green and spring up again.”_

He’s not sure what makes him announce himself, but before he can think, he’s pushing the door open, the hinges squeaking softly. Phoebe turns with a start, but he’s surprised to see none of the irritation and resentment he expected in her gaze. Now that she’s facing him, he can see that her dressing gown is untied, and underneath, she wears a simple white nightshift of thin, near-translucent cotton. He averts his eyes, a familiar hot ache growing in his stomach at the sight of her warm-toned skin through the fabric.

“You scared me,” she breathes, a hand on her chest.

“Sorry.” He hovers uncertainly in the doorway, waiting for her to banish him, but she doesn’t. Instead, she turns back towards the shelf and continues perusing as if this is the most normal thing in the world.

“I couldn’t sleep, and all the books in my room are boring,” she says. After another moment of him standing awkwardly on the threshold, she turns to eye him over her shoulder, a dark eyebrow arched. “You can come in, you know.”

He steps inside, pulling the door behind him and letting his eyes rove over the cozy, circular space. The room has only one window, under which a curved, cushioned sofa with high sides is fitted snugly against the wall. A round Ofieri rug covers the stone floor, and the concave walls are lined with bookshelves all the way around, except for two interruptions- one housing a ladder-like set of stairs to the next level of the spire, and the other housing a small, crackling fireplace.

Phoebe has finally selected a book, and moves towards the mantelpiece, where a tray of crystal carafes and matching glasses twinkle prettily.

“Drink?”

“Whatever you’re having, thanks,” he rasps.

She wedges her book under her armpit and pours two glasses of brandy, then settles herself on the sofa with her legs tucked underneath her, handing him his glass. She gestures towards the empty space beside her. He has no idea why she’s being so accommodating right now after their argument earlier, but he’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Never heard you sing before,” he comments, lowering himself down at the other end of the sofa and taking a sip of his brandy.

She shrugs. “Just something I heard my mother sing sometimes when I was younger. I’m no songbird.”

“Heard Dandelion sing it before. He told me it’s an ancient folk song.”

“Oh, Dandelion,” she sighs, rolling her eyes with a fond smile. “Do you see him often?”

“Often enough,” he nods. “You?”

“I stay at the Chameleon whenever I’m in Novigrad. He always insists on playing me his new songs.”

“Then I guess you know that quite a few of them are about you.”

“Well, I told him that if it’s about me, I don't want to hear it, but it seems those ones’ve become quite popular,” she replies dryly. “I end up hearing them all over the place anyway, from every bard in every tavern, seems like.”

“Can you blame them? Beautiful dryad girl who’s also a source who’s also a burgravine, fighting her way back to claim her rightful title, falling for a witcher and helping to save the world from the white frost along the way? Pretty amazing story. Way more legendary than anything Dandelion cooked up about me and Yen, anyway.”

“Amazing and legendary,” she scoffs quietly, taking a sip of her brandy and staring into the fire. “Sure, that’s one way of looking at it.”

He clears his throat after a pause. “Listen, about earlier, I just want to clarify what I was trying to say.”

She eyes him warily but says nothing, so he goes on.

“When I said I expected you to forget about what happened, I didn’t mean that’s what _I_ did. I’m old, Phoebe, and I’d pretty much given up on ever feeling true peace or happiness before I met you. You changed that. Never forgot anything about you or our time together. Not sure I ever could, even if I really wanted to try, which I don’t. But you were so young, still are. Got your whole life ahead of you, and I guess I figured once you got some space from the situation, you’d finally realize what everyone else seemed to already know: that I wasn’t worth a second of your time, and that a wretched old witcher with no moral compass would just be a blip in the grand story of your life.”

Phoebe takes a deep, shaky breath. Her gaze has been fixed on her hands throughout his speech, and when she finally looks up at him, her eyes are shining with tears. “How can you even say that?” she asks quietly, and her voice isn’t angry or aggressive the way he would’ve expected. Instead it’s hurt, almost helpless. “What indication did I ever give you that this-” she gestured between them- “would be something I could just forget? Everything I did for you, everything I gave- do you really think I would do that for just anyone? I even _told_ you more than once how I felt about you, Geralt. If anything, the only person who was acting like they could forget about it was you.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. Should’ve made it clearer how much you meant to me. And that last time we saw each other… It’s the single greatest regret in my life. I need you to know that. And me coming here now, it’s not because I expect anything of you. Need you to know that, too. Just wanna be in your life again, Phoebe, however you’ll let me. If you wanna keep me at arm’s length like how you’ve been doing, that’s fine.” He takes a deep breath. “But I hope you won’t. I miss you, and I miss our friendship.”

“That might be the most I’ve ever heard you talk,” she sniffs, giving him a small, abashed smile as she wipes her eyes. A knot of tension that he didn’t even know was there releases in his chest at the sight.

“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it,” he chuckles.

“Thank you,” she says, and for the first time since he got here, he sees true warmth in her eyes. “And, for the record, I don’t think anyone thought you weren’t worth my time. No matter what Yennefer may have told you.”

He nods, clearing his throat awkwardly and casting around for a change of subject. “So, where’d you get all the books for this place?”

She looks around the room. “I buy as many as I can whenever I’m in Novigrad.”

“You in Novigrad often?”

“A few times a year, to visit the bank and take care of other random affairs. Seeing Hattori for my weapons and armor, ordering clothing, that sort of thing. I’m honestly kind of surprised our paths never crossed.”

“Well, I was gone a lot of the time, especially for the first year or so after the war ended.” He leans back into the softness of the sofa, feeling like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders now that they’ve talked.

“Right, those ‘adventures’ you mentioned. What were they, anyway?”

“Long stories.” He drains his glass, and she plucks it from his hand, moving back to the fireplace to give both glasses a refill.

“Well, we have time, for one at least.”

“Well, let’s see here, there’s the one about how I became a slave to a master of mirrors, and another about how I came to own a vineyard in Toussaint.”

“You own a vineyard in Toussaint? What the hell are you doing here, then?” She quirks an eyebrow in interest, settling back on the couch, facing him this time. “That sounds juicy, let’s start with that one.”

“Whatever you say, _Your Ladyship,”_ he smirks.

And it’s only a start. But sitting here, in this warm little room, regaling Phoebe with tales of his treks through Toussaint’s picturesque scenery, Geralt suddenly sees possibility- possibility in her small smile, her tentative laugh, the genuine interest shining in her eyes.

Sitting here, Geralt feels hope for the first time in years.


End file.
